Truth Syrup
by face70
Summary: Fifteen year old Sam Winchester overhears John. What he hears strikes a chord. Sam doesn't take it well, doesn't deal well, and might just let it consume him. No way it will, though. No way in hell. Not if Dean has anything to say about it. Loosely based on OhSam prompt list #161 Multi-chapter; Pre-series, Pre stanford
1. Ramble On (Whiskey Redux)

"He's not even 21!"

"It was a tough hunt. Give your brother a break."

"But-!"

"Bedroom. Do your homework, Sam."

He huffed, but resigned, Sam retreated to his bedroom. Fine. Whatever. Far be it from Sam to give a crap if Dean got arrested for underage drinking.

When it should be dad giving a crap, not a thumbs up!

Although, considering things, it all kind of made sense. Even if he was pissed, Sam got it.

November 2, 1998. Fifteen year anniversary of mom's death. Which explained the (not so) faint scent of whiskey coming from dad.

Dad wasn't a drunk by any means. Sam could pretty much count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his father truly plastered. A drink here or there, sure, but in general dad was very much a control freak. In every sense of the word.

Still, on a night like tonight, Sam wanted his brother around. Even if the hunt had been a mess – from what they'd told him at least. He'd been left behind for this one but it didn't matter. Dean shouldn't be out tonight, blowing off steam or not.

Why'd Dean had to run off to a bar anyway? Sam wasn't really eager to see his big brother follow in dad's anniversary 'tradition.' Dean followed him in every other possible way, though, so this was probably one of those fights Sam wouldn't win.

In the end, it didn't matter all that much. Dad'd probably knock one more back and then go to bed early. Dean would probably be back late (if at all. He'd been eying a waitress earlier and gotten her number).

So fine. Sam'd do his homework, read, and then go to bed. And tomorrow everything would be back to normal. Great.

He opened his book and stared at the words a while. Processed nothing. His eyes were doing that thing, scanning words and blurring them into squiggles.

He couldn't help it – it was a Monday night. He had school in the morning. Would Dean wake up in time to take him? Well, no. Not if went with that waitress.

Dad then? Weird – dad hadn't driven him to school ever since Dean got his license –actually, even a few months before then.

Sam kept staring a while. He looked up at the clock. A full half hour already gone and he was no closer to finishing than when he sat down.

It was creeping closer to 11 by now, later than he usually stayed up on weeknights.

He must've been spacing out because now there were voices coming from the other room. Unless dad was losing it (possible…always possible) then they had company.

Which was…weird.

Sam pushed himself up, already anxious. Company was never a good thing – not for them. Ok, well sometimes it was fine, but in this context? On tonight of all nights?

Maybe it was a hunt? Some random 'friend' of dad's looking for help? Sam hoped it wasn't. He'd just gotten used to this school and didn't want to leave. It'd been only like a week.

Sure enough, when he opened the door, Sam heard a distinctly hard and gruff voice.

Hunter. No doubt.

"-long time now, John. What, two years since the chupacabra?"

"Roughly."

Drunk, Sam's mind provided. He could tell the same instant dad spoke, just from his voice.

Ok, uncomfortable. Company- some stranger whose voice Sam didn't recognize, with dad who was down one whiskey too many.

Seriously, Dean. Now would be a good time to get back.

Sam lurked and kept the door half-cracked open. Whoever the guy was he wasn't concerned about his voice carrying. Or for any people that might actually be sleeping.

But Sam wasn't – and wouldn't be any time soon – so it didn't matter really.

"Yeah, well. You gave that thing a run for it's money, man. Hell of a shot, too. That kid of yours."

Sam frowned. He could practically hear dad frown almost two rooms over. Who was this guy, talking about Dean all familiar?

And actually, what hunt was this? Chupacabra?

Sam gripped the edge of the door tighter. Probably just one of the (many) times he'd been left (dumped) at Pastor Jim's. With no information.

"Any reason you're here, Asa?"

"Oh, ah – yeah. Yeah, man. Like I said, heard you were passing through. Figured I'd drop by. Spirit's been raisin' some hell about three hours north west of here. Two bodies dropped in three days, if you're interested."

A hunt. Of course. Sam looked over his shoulder at the sad, forgotten textbook on his bed.

"Vengeful spirit, huh." Dad seemed to be thinking it over (shocking). "Not a good time."

Sam leaned back from the door, almost closed it because of the relief. Maybe the one silver lining of this anniversary was that hunts seemed to be a no-go on today's particular date.

Sam felt guilt. It flooded him.

Nice. Silver lining to mom's death.

Nice.

He waited, half-expecting this Asa guy to talk dad up. They always tried that, the few who ever 'dropped by.'

He didn't though. It was just a lot of quiet and the clink and swirl of ice in a half-empty glass of whisky.

"Well shit. Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was-"

"Yeah. Keep it to yourself, Asa. It's just one night. My boys do their thing. I do mine. You still need help with a salt and burn a week from now, you give me a call."

"Right…yeah," Asa wanted to change subjects – Sam could hear it, "Sure will. Dean'd love that probably. What about the runt? You didn't bring'm down last time, he'd probably get a kick outta this one – it's a pretty routine run."

Dude. Rambling, Sam thought. Annoyed.

His irritation died quick. Because Sam was picking something up, some vibes that had him gripping at the door again, turning his ear to the crack.

Because there was that weird quiet again when someone brought up something they shouldn't.

"Sammy, huh."

Sam swallowed.

"Yeah, little Sammy- kid could probably use a basic- …John?"

Sam held his breath.

"Fifteen now." Sam heard movement. Clock? Calendar? Dad was looking for something.

"Wow… already?"

Shifting. Dad nodded probably.

"Man. So quick," Asa said.

Sam could just imagine it. Dad staring into his whiskey. Asa shifting his weight. The too-loud clock ticking away until this conversation could finally end.

Sam shouldn't listen in, he knew. But how could he not? Dad, and Dean, they never told him anything about her. About mom.

"She was…"

Sam dug his nails into the wooden door so much it hurt. Dad never sounded that… human. Ever.

"Amazing. Amazing woman. You know that, Mr. Winchester. She was amazing – and I owe'er… owe you my life."

"Yeah. Yeah. She was… you know. Fifteen years and I wish she was…" Dad was going quiet again.

"Well, I'm never good with words. You know that. But you've got your boys."

"She'd be here."

"Huh?"

Sam quietly echoed Asa.

"I wish… she'd be here. Would be. But Sammy. She'd be here, if he…and sometimes I wish…"

"...John." Asa hissed out dad's name. Like a quiet warning. To shush him.

Sam didn't hear it though. Or the hushed shrug and, "Yeah.." dad said back.

Sam didn't hear anything except the blood rushing past his ears. Didn't hear anything but the whispers that filled in the blanks of dad's broken thoughts.

 _"She'd be here **if he wasn't.** And sometimes I wish **he wasn't.** "_

That was it. Like the glowing beacon, the big key that cleared it all up.

It all made so, so much more sense. The butting heads. Stubbornness. How dad always just fine with soldier Dean but never satisfied with anything Sam did, not matter how hard he tried to do. His grades. His research. He helped! He did, he always helped when they asked him!

And if there was attitude, it was just kid stuff! He tried! He tried, he did! But it was never, ever good – it was never enough and it never, ever would be enough.

Because he wasn't. Sam wasn't enough. Sam could not and would not ever fill the hole in their lives. In dad's life.

Nope. Instead, he was a reminder.

A constant, daily reminder.

Dad, your amazing, awesome wife – and Dean amazing mom- is dead. And your consolation prize?

Whiskey was truth serum. Magic potion that got dad talking.

Sam was vaguely aware that Asa left because he heard the front door closing. Sam didn't remember closing his own bedroom door, though. He didn't remember turning out the light or falling into bed while his textbook dug into his hip.

It hurt. That was ok, though.

* * *

Loosely based on the following prompt. I aged the boys up a bit and Sam is in the know about the hunter world.

-  
161- Wee!chesters, Gen:  
(Also a little off cannon but hey it's fanfiction) Sam doesn't know about the hunting world. All he knows is his mother died on suspicious terms. One day, which happens to be the 6th anniversary of Mary's death he hears his Dad talking to a friend of his in their supposed living room.

Sammy doesn't realize his father is drunk and rambling and hears his Dad talk about him and how he wished he had Mary instead of him right now. This breaks something inside of Sammy and he inadvertently hurdles into depression. Dean knows that somethings wrong with his brother but it horrifies him when he finds out (how is up to you). Much bonus points if he confronts John about this and John agrees that Dean is right about all his accusations. Prompt is here  
-


	2. Midnight Rider (Home by 11)

"Ain't no way you're getting in here, kid."

"C'mon, buddy. Don't be like that."

The bouncer stared the kid down. Stared that shit-eating, half-cocked grinning little punk right down.

"Go home, _buddy_. Unless you want me callin' the cops?"

"Woah. Yeah, fine. I get it."

The kid reached out. The bouncer tucked the plastic card in his pocket.

"And I'm keepin' the fake."

"…son of a-"

"You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

Dean wasn't butt hurt. Not really. Sometimes he could pass for 21 with the fake, or the bouncers didn't care, and he'd get in. Sometimes he didn't. No big deal.

Nah. Dean wasn't butt hurt. But he was pissed.

Freakin' livid.

He stared at the bouncer. Just glared, angry and even a little satisfied that now all the crap today dredged up had a justified target because that big bastard just had to mouth off.

He pushed it down. Barely, but he contained the burning need just punch this dick in the face.

The guy already threatened bringing in the law. If Dean beat him up, it'd be more of a promise than a threat.

Dean scowled, but backed down. He turned and walked back towards the motel.

Today was already bad enough. Last thing it needed was police interference. Just the image that thought conjured up – having to call dad from jail?

Yeah. Not pretty.

Dean looked at his watch. Close to 11. Man, what was he, eight?

Freakin' 11 o'clock. PM.

Dean shot an annoyed look over his shoulder at the bar. The neon glow was fading with each step.

And was it drizzling?

Rain? Really?

Talk about playing up the theatrics.

Just about an hour to go til this day was over. Then a whole 364 days until the next anniversary.

Fifteen years. It still seemed like yesterday. Wasn't really an easy memory to forget.

Fifteen. Damn.

He hoped Sammy wasn't still up. Not that he would be. Kid was usually religious about getting to bed early. For school. Little geek.

Yeah, Sammy usually got to bed early – unless Dean and dad were on a hunt.

Sam'd told him once or twice he didn't fall asleep so easy on those nights.

Wasn't really a drizzle any more. More like a healthy downpour – not the soak you to your bones kind, but not exactly light.

Dean picked up the pace.

Friggin' shoes were gonna soak through. To his socks.

Dean grimaced and picked up the pace again.

The motel was coming into view. The flickering neon got brighter and brighter.

The Shady Inn.

Appropriately named.

"Anyone up?" Dean asked after unlocking the door and letting himself in. He stepped out of his wet shoes. And wet socks. Gross.

Most of the lights were out except for some 'mood lighting' coming from the kitchen.

Dad was parked under the warm glow, stone-faced and reading his journal. Or at least staring at it

A bar glass sat there. It was empty, but Dean could see the brown ring at the bottom. Could smell it, too. Just a little.

"Back early son."

Dean straightened. He shrugged out of it real quick and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah. Guess the IDs need work. Should talk to Bobby about that one, dad."

"Not talkin' to Bobby much these days."

Dean frowned and walked forward. Well, at least it seemed like one of them'd tied a few back tonight.

Dean just wished it wasn't the one of them that'd been alone with his kid brother.

"When did Sammy knock out?"

"'Round ten I think. Not sure. Friend of mine stopped by earlier. Sam was in his room before then."

"What friend?"

So Sam wasn't left with just dad three sheets to the wind, but some random stranger too?

"Let it go for the night, Dean." Dad stood. It seemed like it took him ages. Like he was older than usual. He always seemed older on these anniversaries. "I'm going to bed. Suggest you do the same. We're leaving early."

"Leaving?" It'd been like a week.

Dean didn't question dad much but this just seemed fast. Like weird fast.

"Goodnight, son."

No answers. No explanations. Nothing new there.

"Night."

Dean listened for the door and stood when he heard it close. Dad to his room, Dean and Sam to theirs.

Yeah, fine. To be honest, a hunt kinda sounded perfect right about now. Dean was ready to put this crappy day and this crappy town behind. He was in the mood to kick something's ass. Good timing.

He turned off the light and opened the door to their room.

Lights were out. Good. Sam was getting his rest like a good little geek should.

Not that Dean'd ever admit it but he was glad that some particular parts of his influence didn't always rub off on Sammy.

Dean needed to see and the room was pitch black. He went for the lamp furthest from Sam because he didn't totally want to wake the kid. But he stopped dead in his tracks, because…

Was…did Sam..?

Yeah. There it was again. Dean froze solid and strained to listen over the quiet hum of the heater.

Yeah. A sniffle.

A quiet, basically impossible to hear but definitely there sniffle.

"Sammy?" Dean said in a whisper.

The heater kept humming. No more sniffles though.

"Sam?" Dean tried again.

He stared through the dark, looked at the small, curled figure that was his (apparently) "peaceful" and "sleeping" kid brother.

Nada. Not a peep.

Maybe it was nothing. Today was weird. It was always a weird day, every year. Like depressing clockwork.

Well, Dean was done with today. He just wanted to pass out, wake up and kill something evil.

The older Winchester stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt. He climbed into his. He stared at the ceiling.

Because maybe it was his dumb, weird anniversary brain playing tricks on him. Maybe there was no sniffle.

But something was weirder than the normal weird that came with today. Well, not weird. Not just weird.

Wrong. Something was wrong.

Because even if he was nuts, if there's been no sniffling and even if Sam was really sleeping like a damn baby, that didn't explain the jeans.

Yeah. Jeans. Sam never slept in his jeans, let alone his freakin' shoes which, yeah, the kid was still wearing.

Something about shoes, germs, and beds being a bad combo.

Dean closed his eyes. He'd wait til morning. Til this crap day was done. Til he got a good nights sleep.

He heard a sniffle.


	3. The Battle of Evermore

"Fry?"

Sam looked up from the page he'd been staring at. Dean smiled at him from the front seat, waving a French fry

Sam shook his head and looked back at his book.

"C'mon, Sammy. You didn't touch breakfast. Guessin' you didn't eat dinner either."

Dad gave Dean the side eye, but otherwise just kept on driving.

"You wanna stay five foot nothing forever?"

"I'm good."

Dean stared. He almost frowned - Sam saw his face twitch.

"Suit yourself."

Sam watched him pop the fry in his mouth and turn back around in defeat.

Dean lost this battle, but not the war. Sam knew it was war, too, because Dean had been hovering all morning.

When they were packing and throwing everything they owned in the Impala, Dean'd been over Sam's shoulder the whole time.

Even now Sam felt him staring in the rearview mirror.

Was he that obvious, seriously? Sam hadn't said one word about anything – there was nothing to say anything about anyway.

Nothing aside from dad saying he wished mom was here instead of Sam.

Nothing really.

Sam closed his book. It was a lost cause now anyway. None of it made sense when he couldn't focus. He scooted over and leaned against the window.

Sam felt guilty because he was angry.

He felt guilty because he was angry that dad wanted mom back. Because he shouldn't be mad about that. Of course dad'd want that. Sam didn't remember her at all, but he wanted her back too. He knew for sure Dean did.

Sam shouldn't be mad.

But he was. He was hurt. More than anything.

Sam looked at the book in his lap.

The Pedigree of the Devil by Frederic T. Hall. 1883.

Sam'd been reading Shakespeare last night for school. He left the textbook behind in the motel.

No offense to Shakespeare, but his writing was no use to Winchesters unless Hamlet hunted ghosts. Or… Wendigos. Or something.

Dad didn't say much about where they were going, just that school wasn't gonna be happening for the next week. Maybe longer.

When they stopped for breakfast Sam'd made time to dig through some of dad's stuff – bad move in theory, yeah – but dad actually seemed maybe kinda actually happy or at least vaguely approving that Sam wanted to read a lore book.

A demon lore book, specifically.

Sam was gonna try. Hard. He thought he had been trying, and yeah he had, but not in ways that mattered to dad.

Sam was a straight A student. Teachers told him he'd have his choice of colleges if he kept it up.

Questions about political theories in the subtext of classical literature? Sam's your man.

Questions about the best way to take out a Jersey Devil? Might wanna sit that one out, Sammy.

He was gonna change this. He'd be the expert, the go-to research guy since dad, and especially Dean, were still hesitant to really bring him along for the tough hunts.

Sam didn't want to go. Not really. The hunts he'd been on, dad and Dean took the lead obviously.

But it wasn't just being afraid, even thought that was part of it. At least not for himself.

As bad as this life was …well it was still his life.

Dean. Even dad, yeah. If anything happened to them? Sam didn't think about it and pushed it away because even if they didn't want him here, Sam just couldn't not have them here.

Sam felt eyes on him again. Not Dean's though. He looked up and caught dad's glance in the mirror.

They both looked away.

"What're you reading anyway? School stuff?" Dean's said with a mouthful of fries.

"Demonology stuff. It's old."

Dean looked suddenly serious despite the fry-cheeks. "Demon stuff?"

"Looks like he's finally taking an interest," dad said. Carefully.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah."

"Okay, I'm all for letting Sammy fly his geek flag, but demon stuff, dad?"

"Son-"

"Dude, it's just a book. And dad's been after this thing forever."

"Yeah, thanks for the update. You're still a kid. You don't need to be worrying about the demon. Or demons in general. Period."

"Boys…"

"Why not? It's a part of our lives too. We're basically hunting it with him!"

"Sam-"

"Hunting the…seriously? Sammy, you've been to more chess club meetings than hunts!"

"Yeah. Because you don't want me here."

"Dean."

Sam and Dean jumped and glanced to dad. The fight in them disappeared.

"You keep an eye on your brother tonight."

Sam leaned against the window. He watched Dean's back, watched his shoulders tense – basically read his expression.

Pissed.

"But the hunt-"

"I don't want you out there if you're not on your A game and something's obviously got you distracted. Next exit's in thirty two miles. Friendsville. You and Sammy get a room while I go take care of this."

Sam watched his brother. Dean wanted to say something. Wanted to fight it, to hunt.

Wanted to be away from Sam.

"It shouldn't take more than a few days. You'll keep an eye on your brother."

Sam looked out the window. Blue sky and clouds rolling by.

"Yes, sir," Dean said.

Sam closed his eyes. The sun was too bright. Blinding.

* * *

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	4. Here I Go Again (Mining Melancholy)

Not this time.

Not this time, dad.

Sam watched the Impala drive away from the Who-Cares Motel in It-Doesn't-Matter, USA.

Sam was done. Done with being left out. Done with being the baby.

He could help if they just gave him chance. But if they weren't gonna, then he'd make one. Dad was gonna figure that out real quick.

The case wasn't far away. Mather, Pennsylvania. 59 miles from Friendsville.

An hour by car. Way more by foot.

Dean stared at the TV, sulking probably. Sam didn't blame him – it was his fault Dean didn't get to go with dad.

Stuck babysitting instead of hunting.

"Dean-"

"Do your homework."

Sam frowned. "I don't have any. No school right now, remember?"

"Well read or something." Dean looked over. He frowned, too. "No demon crap though."

"Not like there's a lot to choose from."

Dean shrugged and looked back to the TV.

Baywatch.

Typical.

But this could work – actually, this was perfect.

Sam grabbed his backpack, still stuffed full of all his junk. He and Dean hadn't really unpacked yet, because what was the point?

"Well I guess I'll hit the library then."

"Need a ride?"

"Nah, it's close. I think it closes at ten, so… you know, if you're not gonna be here…"

"Not much of a night scene here, Sammy. Want me to grab food?"

Sam shook his head and started out the door. "I'll grab something in town."

He stopped for a second at the door. Sam glanced over his shoulder. Dean, boots still on (c'mon, dude- germs?) and sprawled out on the bed.

 _I'll show you I can help – Then you wont have to babysit me. I'm not gonna disappoint you guys anymore, Dean._

"See you later."

"Adios, Sammy."

Fifteen minutes later, Sam reached the National Freeway.

It'd take too long to walk to Mather. So hitchhiking it was.

Sam watched car after car pass. He got a few glances but no luck.

An old Ford slowed down, pulled onto the shoulder and stopped just a few feet away.

Sam saw an older lady inside. Not that he'd ever admit it, but he was kinda grateful it wasn't some creepy old guy with a bald spot.

He walked around to the passenger side and leaned up while she rolled down the window.

"Thanks for stopping."

"You alright? I've seen hitchhikers before, but never one was young as you."

"I'm fifteen."

The lady didn't believe him. He could tell. Freakin' Dean getting all the good, 'tall' family genes.

"Fair 'nuff. Well alrighty there, son. Where you headed?"

"Mather, Pennsylvania. Is that too far out of your way?"

"Nah, not at all. Headin' to Pittsburgh to see my brother so you're in luck." She leaned over and opened the door.

Sam smiled and climbed in. He buckled his seatbelt and stuffed his backpack between his legs.

"That's good. I would've felt kinda bad."

The lady smiled at him and pulled back onto the freeway.

"Sarah."

"Sam. Thanks, Sarah. Seriously."

"Yeah, well. Not like I'm gonna leave some poor teenager camped out on the road. Especially in this heat."

"Indian summer."

"Damn right it is. Never gets this warm in November." Sarah looked over. "Well it's nice to meet you, Sam."

Sam looked over his shoulder. There was a duffle bag in the back seat. No chainsaw or hatchets. So far so good.

"So what's in Mather?"

"Work."

"Work?"

"Oh – yeah, well kinda. It's a scholarship thing. A lot of research."

"What's the subject?"

Should he? Sam looked out the window.

"Ghosts."

"Is the town haunted? I didn't know that. Though I don't really go there much."

"It's supposed to be or something. There was an explosion there in the 20s in this mine. Almost 200 people died."

"Lived nearby for over fifteen years and never knew that. So it's the miners haunting up the place?"

"Well, that's what people say. I'm just gonna do some digging into it in person. Nothing like being face to face with that stuff."

"Fair point. You're braver than me, kid. My lights flicker a little and I'm callin' up the clergy."

"Try salt," Sam blurted. Maybe he shouldn't have. He looked away.

Sarah glanced at him, surprised.

"It's something I read somewhere."

"Well all right. I'll keep that in mind."

Sam looked over in relief. That was close.

Sarah turned on the radio and hummed along to _Have You Ever Seen the Rain_.

It was nice. Sarah was nice. For a stranger, sure, but more than that.

Dean would like her for sure. Dad, too probably.

Did mom ever hum along to songs like this? Maybe she used to when dad and she were driving down the highway.

Sam didn't hum much. He was kinda tone deaf. According to Dean anyway.

"Here?"

"Yeah, here's good. I'm just gonna get a room and head to the mine later."

"Isn't this place a little...I mean it's kind of seedy lookin' to me."

Sam looked up at the sign. _Morning Light Motel_. He'd seen worse, though this was close.

Which meant dad was definitely here.

"Thanks for everything, Sarah." Sam slid his backpack over his shoulder and turned to her. He held up a wad of cash.

Sarah got that thoughtful look again. She didn't say anything, but Sam lowered his hand. Sarah reached to the glove compartment and pulled out a pen and notepad.

"Sam," she scribbled on the note, "You give me a call and check in." She ripped off the corner, leaned over and held out the paper. "And keep your money for dinner."

Sam stared back at her. He nodded. He took the paper and looked at the numbers.

"Whatever you're running from, I'm not so sure ghosts are gonna be much help. Better off bein' with the people who're still around."

Sam tucked the paper into his pocket.

She was right. But dad wanted the ghosts.

"Thanks again."

Sarah shot him a small smile and waved goodbye. "You be safe, now."

Sam waved after her and watched the orange truck disappear around the corner.

* * *

 _Thank you all for the faves / reviews. Awesome. You're all awesome._


	5. All the Young Dudes

"Haven't seen anyone like that, sorry kid."

"Was there anyone else working here? Maybe earlier this morning?"

"Maybe. My shift starts at 8, but the owner beat me in this morning. He mighta seen something."

"I guess I'll try him then. Is he around?"

"Back office." Pizza face thumbed past his shoulder. Sam looked at the door. Light was on inside. He was in luck.

"Thanks." Sam walked around the check in desk and went for the management office. He knocked and waited.

No answer.

Sam went in anyway. Empty. Well that's annoying. People shouldn't leave their lights on when they're not around.

"Maids'll be done with your room in about an hour. He might be back by then."

Sam turned back to pizza face – okay, yeah, kind of mean… Sam blamed dean rubbing off on him – and nodded. "Ok. Guess I'll check out the town. Hey, you know, I heard this place used to have to have an old mine. Know where it is?"

"Oh, yeah. Right in town. It's not really there any more though. But you might wanna avoid it. Saw a lot of cops in the area. Don't see that much around here."

Jackpot.

"Thanks."

It was a walk, but Sam saw what the motel check in guy was talking about. Three squad cars were parked outside a big, hollowed out building that an overgrown railroad passed through. 'Do not cross' tape blocked off the door.

Three squad cars, but no cops? Sam looked down the road. A bar and a hardware store stood side by side. Not much else.

Maybe just a warning to keep anyone from snooping. Sam wasn't 'anyone.'

Sam ducked under the police tape and walked inside. It was dark aside from a few beams of late-afternoon sun.

In all honesty, if Sam wasn't used to it, he might've been a little spooked.

Sam looked around, scanned the scene. Not many rooms or doors to hide in. He pulled his EMF reader out of his pocket and flipped it on.

It blipped, whirred and lit up like a Christmas tree.

He stuffed it back in his pocket. Not like that was surprising – he expected there to be ghosts.

But as creepy as the building was, it wasn't exactly all that dark or ominous.

Sam looked around again and noticed a door, the only one he'd seen still intact. He hurried over to it and tried the handle.

Stubborn, but it budged a little. He tried hard and winced at the rust digging into his hand. The door groaned, but it opened a sliver – just enough for Sam to get a grip.

After (slowly) tugging it open, Sam looked down the hall. That part of the building was still standing, though it looked blown out. And it went down. Like underground down.

That was a little more dark and ominous looking.

He'd never been on a big hunt and he'd never hunted alone.

Because he was Sammy and Sammy was a liability.

But Sam started walking. He closed the door behind him, left it open a crack, and turned on his flashlight.

And he kept walking because he was Sam, not Sammy.

Sam stopped, took a knee and opened his backpack. He pulled out a foot-long iron pipe.

Salt worked best, but iron was a close second when it came to ghosts.

Armed and ready, Sam forged on.

He found a bigger room at the end of the hall. No windows, so definitely underground now.

So this was the work point, cool. But where was the actual mine?

Something clattered. Sam flashed the light in the direction it came from.

It kept clattering and banging on the tile floor.

Then it rolled. Slow.

He started toward it and found the source.

"A cup..?" He picked it up and scanned the room again. The beam of his flashlight didn't show much. He didn't find anything.

A rat or something. That made the most sense, because a ghost would be sneakier than that.

Sam white knuckled the pipe, dropped the cup, and kept walking.

There was another door up ahead and it was easier to get through than the other'd been.

It smelled stale and old, but not unfamiliar. Bathroom probably.

He walked in and looked around. Looks like the place had showers at one point. Something about showers and tiles and 99% darkness never really sat well.

Sam kept looking and found a kitchen and what looked like an old supervisor's office, but so far, no ghosts.

And no dad. What the hell? Dad'd said Mather. He said mines. So where the hell was he?

Last door. It wasn't so much a door as a gate. He wondered if it was iron. And if so, maybe it kept the ghosts in.

Or maybe it would've it if wasn't open halfway.

Sam pushed it the rest of the way open. Unlike the rest of the place, there was no tile in there. Stone. Just a lot of stone and rock and wood.

It didn't go back far. He walked in and tripped. Sam flashed the light down.

Rail tracks for minecarts probably.

He looked to his left and then right. Tunnels, and they seemed to go on forever.

At least far enough his flashlight couldn't show the end. Just a whole lot of dark.

It was cold though. Colder than the building for sure. It was a mine, so yeah, not exactly unexpected.

Sam kinda wished he'd grabbed his heavy jacket though.

Whatever. He'd take a look around for now. Signs of anything unnatural. He probably should've gotten the story from the cops, but dad (assuming dad actually was around somewhere) probably already took care of it.

Plus, talking to the cops wasn't exactly easy for Sam. He was young and looked younger.

So, he started walking, leaving no stone unturned – literally.

Ghosts meant something was keeping them bound to earth. Usually bones, but trinkets or cursed objects.

And almost 200 people died here. A lot of them were probably stuck in the tunnels, stuck by cave ins from the explosion.

Sam got further and deeper in and there, finally, he finally hit something.

Cave in. Rocks from floor to ceiling.

The only thing was… dust was smoking up and a few rocks were clattering. This was a new cave in.

New enough that there was someone behind it trying to break through.

Or some _thing_.

Sam held up the pipe and shined his light at the rocks. A ghost could get through. And the way this thing sounded it was no Wendigo.

Maybe this explained the cops and the police tape.

Sam freaking hoped so.

"H-Hey. Hey!" he shouted.

The banging stopped. Quiet except for tired panting from the other side.

"Hey!" Sam tried again, "Do you…are you stuck? Just- I'll get help if you are."

The air got a lot more suffocating and it wasn't because of the mine or a ghost.

"…Sam?" came the startled, pissed off voice.

* * *

 **rozzy07** : Seems Sam never quite grew out of that, either : (

 **Kas3y** : Thank you for all your comments!

 **Mango Marbles** : Things rarely turn out well for Sam. But they turn out and that's what's important! And I love me some 'Sam the family pariah' as well – I hope you enjoy!

 **Kandilyn** : I would certainly advocate NOT hitchhiking. Hatchets and chainsaws and all that.

 **Passshammer** : Thank you very much!


	6. Band on the Run(Jailor John, Sailor Sam)

"Dad! Hey, are you ok?"

The battering started again, a little more aggressive this time. Sam dropped the pipe and ran forward. He started grabbing rocks and throwing them aside, trying to get through and dad was doing the same.

"Hang on, dad, it's coming loose – you okay?"

No answer, just more banging from the other side. The cave in started falling in on itself.

Sam climbed up and saw small opening at the top.

Dad looked tired but mostly ok.

Sam jumped back when the rest of the rocks gave way. Dust smoked up and he coughed, trying to look through the darkness. "Dad?"

Dad climbed around the opening they made and headed straight for Sam, started looking him over.

"I'm fine, dad."

Dad looked relieved for a second. Then he started in.

"What's going on? Where's Dean?"

"He's safe. He's ok. Still in Friendsville."

"Alright," dad said, though it wasn't exactly convincing. He picked up the flashlight

"What are you doing here, Sam? I told your brother to keep an eye on you and you end up here?"

"Don't go blaming Dean for this, dad. He doesn't know I'm gone. Look, I know ghosts and I did the research on this place. I'm not staying behind anymore."

"And what if you'd been the one stuck behind the cave in?"

"I'd figure it out."

"And if you didn't? What if you couldn't?"

"Well what if I hadn't come? You'd still be stuck behind there - don't act like I'm the only one who can get hurt on a hunt."

"It's not about that, Sam. When I tell you to do something, you do it. End of story."

"Kinda late for that now."

"If you're trying to prove something, this is a piss poor way to go about it."

"If you ever listened to me I wouldn't have to."

"Quiet."

"No. You can try, but I'm not going back and I'm not forcing Dean to babysit-"

"Sammy, quiet!"

Dad was dead still and staring past him. Sam looked over his shoulder and froze.

Yeah. Alone, they were not.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel which should impossible considering they were 250 feet down.

Dad reached down, slowly picked up the pipe and stepped in front of Sam.

"When I say run, you run," dad whispered.

"It's the ghosts, right?" Sam whispered back, "Dad, we can fight them – we shouldn't run away."

"Just do what I say. For once."

Sam looked away in anger and nodded. The light disappeared.

Out of nowhere, the spirit wailed and shot towards them.

"Run!"

Sam hauled ass and sidelined around the ghost. He heard the blast of a gun that shook the tunnel and echoed.

Sam turned and saw his dad far back and leaning against the wall. He was holding his shoulder.

The tunnel rumbled again.

"Dad!" He ran back. "Dad, are you ok? "

"Rock salt," dad said, lifting the gun with his good arm. "Not a good idea in a mine. C'mon."

Sam grabbed dad's duffle bag and noticed the blood dripping down dad's arm

"Dad, your shoulder."

"Not now. C'mon." Dad started back toward the gate.

Sam followed.

They walked silently back to the motel. Dad wiped up the blood and took back his duffle.

Inside, dad dropped the bag. He pulled out his no frills first aid kit, walked to the table and sat down to start tending the wound.

Sam sat on the bed and watched. Dad's wound was deep. It looked nasty.

"..dad…"

Dad looked up and he looked ready to start in on Sam.

"Dad, look-"

"Damn it, Sam." Dad slammed the first aid kit closed, "If I wanted you here, do you think I'd have kept you and your brother 60 miles away?"

"No, sir."

"What are you doing here?"

Sam looked away. Because he couldn't look at dad any more.

"I know you don't want me here. But I'm here." Sam said. He looked directly at dad. "I know I'm not Dean, but I can help you with this."

"But why?"

Sam shrugged and replied, "I want to help. That's all."

Dad stared back for what felt like forever. Sam meant it. Dad could try and get rid of him, but Sam was gonna do whatever it took to prove he could help.

"So you wanna help, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well alright then. You can start by doing what I tell you to do. You do that and you can stay, but I need you to do that for me, son. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said, nodding.

"We need to narrow down who that vengeful spirit is. A lot of those miners died violently so any one of'em are suspect. I'm gonna need a run down on the 200 people that died." Dad looked at his duffle. "There's a book in there on the disaster. It's got names, but not much else. Start there."

Sam grabbed the bag and pulled out the book. "I can follow up at the library tomorrow."

He sat back down and opened the book. No time like the present. But he felt dad watching him.

"Right. First, call your brother. Let him know what's going on.

Sam's stomach dropped. He glanced up ready to ask if dad could just deal with it because Dean was gonna be less than thrilled.

But rule number one – do what dad says or no dice on the hunt.

Which is why dad asked Sam to make the call and was still watching him like a hawk.

"Ok," Sam said quietly while grabbing his phone. He dialed, pressed call, and waited.

And Dean picked up.

"Dean-"

 _"Son of a bitch, Sammy!"_

* * *

 ** _As always, thank you so much for the reviews!_**


	7. Anarchy in (the) PA

The library closed at 8. Dean checked.

It was 8:30 and no Sammy.

Houston, we have a freakin' problem.

Dean passed out at some point after Sam took off. A little alone time never hurt and with their lifestyle, they didn't get it much. Or Dean didn't, at least.

Always with dad hunting or watching out for Sammy. Or with some sweet little lady. Alone? Not much.

He didn't mind – he liked all of the above. Not so much when dad and Sam were at each other's throats, though.

Which, suspiciously, they hadn't been the last day or so. Ever since they took off from the last place.

Usually there was at least one stupid comment Sam'd make or too-controlling order dad'd bark out. Nothing, though.

No, instead Sam was suddenly Joe Hunter.

It was a few days after the anniversary, so the ick of that night was mostly gone for him and dad. Sam didn't usually get hit so bad with the depression stick which was understandable. Kid never knew mom, just knew that he never really had one.

Something was weird though. Dean was expecting a full on bitch fit the morning after when dad told them to pack up.

Not a peep from Sam. Just a 'yes sir' and then he actually went and packed.

Which should be a good thing. Dad and Sammy getting along.

Yeah, but that right there was what freaked Dean right out. Not that they hated each other, but Sammy was difficult.

And now he wasn't all of a sudden.

And also now, it was after 8:30, the library was friggin' closed, and Sam was nowhere to be seen.

And he wasn't picking up his phone.

Dean stood outside the library and glared at the doors as if Sam would magically come walking out.

His anger was a pretty thin mask, though.

Where the hell was he? Anything, literally, anything could've…nope. Not going with that train of thought.

Dean pulled out his phone and tried calling dad. No answer there, either.

Screw this. Dean didn't have a car but that never stopped him before. The library parking lot was mostly empty. Dean scowled at the options.

A minivan and a station wagon sat three parking spots apart.

Seriously?

Minivan it was so that, when Dean found him (not if) he could lock the kid up and toss him in back and then beat his ass for making Dean worry.

He got it hot wired quick and peeled out (yes, in a minivan). The town had maybe a five mile radius so the drive wouldn't take long.

It was getting darker. Dean gripped the wheel tight and drove but didn't see anyone looing like his string-bean little brother anywhere on the roads.

And he wasn't lying earlier – there really wasn't any night scene in this town.

The shops were closed and both bars he checked turned up squat.

Dean was en route to Mather to find dad because he was at a loss and he wanted his brother found ASAP. If anyone was good at hunting things down, it was dad.

Granted, Dean wasn't exactly looking forward to saying "Hey dad, I lost Sammy," but pride and trust be damned.

Because Sammy was lost. Missing.

Words that should not ever be in the same friggin' sentence.

Dean pulled out his phone again. Past 10 now. He started dialing and froze when it started ringing.

 _Sam calling_

Please. Please, God, let it be Sam and not some psycho ghost demon monster hybrid on the other line.

 _"Dean-?"_

"Son of a _bitch_ , Sammy!"

 _"Yeah...hey, I-"_

"Where the hell are you?"

 _"I'm with dad. I uh… we're hunting."_

Dean gripped his phone tighter. "Since when? What's with you going all Rambo lately dude? And, by the way, Pennsylvania is pretty freakin' far from the library."

 _"I know – look, I'm sorry. I just need to do this."_

"To hunt?"

 _"Pretty much, yeah."_

"If you think I'm letting you do this alone-"

 _"I'm not. Dad's here. He's letting me."_

"I'm coming."

 _"Dean, no. You don't have to do that. I mean, you can take some time off or something."_

"Just don't move. I'll be there in 45."

 _"I don't need you to babysit me."_

"Too bad."

Dean hung up and floored it.

43 minutes later, Dean pulled into the motel parking lot. He parked his minivan next to the Impala and glanced down to his phone.

Dad texted him after the phone call with Sam, just _"room 7."_

Dean knocked (pounded) on the door and waited.

"Son," dad greeted when he opened it. Dean brushed past him and threw his bag on the floor.

Still no Sam.

"Where is he?"

"Bathroom. Been in there a while."

"What, he getting ready for a freaking date or something?"

"Hey." Dean looked back to dad who for some reason wasn't looking particularly angry. "I already gave him the talk about ditching you again. I want you to understand something though, son."

Dean looked past dad to the bathroom door and glared at it. "Ok."

Dad sighed and locked the door to their room. "Your brother's finally showing an interest. He spent most of the night researching lore. This is a good thing."

"Is it?" Dean barked, looking back, "The way I see it, we've got Sammy doing a total 180 with no explanation. That seem normal to you?"

"Ever hear of a gift horse, son?"

Dean sat on the edge of the bed and watched dad sit down at the table. "Seriously. There's nothing about this hitting you as being weird? Dad, Sam doesn't just take off."

"Flagstaff?"

Dean hardened his glare. "He was a kid."

"He still is. You both are," Dean looked offended. Dad smiled (a rarity) and continued, "But he's showing an interest. Sammy's smart and he's got a knack for research, more than me. Him using it for something that matters, something that'll help save lives – I'm not about to tell the kid to stop."

"Fine. Let him research, but he doesn't need to be in the field."

"You were."

Dean and dad both looked up. Sam stood in the bathroom doorway, stone face and eyes on Dean.

"Doesn't mean you have to be," Dean said, standing.

"Doesn't mean I don't want to. Why'd you come if you're just gonna bite off my head?"

"Maybe because you were missing for two hours and I didn't hear a damn word from you? And considering our line of work – well freakin' excuse me if I don't throw a parade when my little brother goes missing."

"I can help with this stuff."

"You're a kid."

"Not forever," Sam bit back.

"Dean."

They looked at dad.

"I'm going with Sam on this one. I get that you're worried and I'm not telling you to stop looking out for your brother, but Sammy's right. If he wants a shot at this I'm not seeing any reason not to give him one."

"He's barely fifteen."

"And you were eleven. Your first hunt, you remember?"

Dean scowled.

Dad continued, "And you were taking care of him a lot longer than that."

This was a weird shift in dynamic. Dad arguing for Sam. Dean being the downer. Was no one else finding this whole thing totally freaking off?

Dean looked over at Sam who apparently was finding something weird. He looked like he couldn't believe dad had his back on this one. The kid looked like Christmas came early.

Son of a bitch.

Dean looked over to Sam's things on the bed. A binder full of old newspapers, laptop with a big fat comforting headline, "MYSTERIOUS, GRISLY DEATH IN ABANDONED MINE" staring back at him. And then books, a few of'em. No school work. Nothing college worthy, but books on local Pennsylvania folklore. And that demon book, too.

Dean lost this battle. He'd been losing a lot of battles lately and the way things were going, it just might be the whole war, too.

"Fine," Dean gave in, but he looked back to dad. "The second things get too bad, even an inch..." he warned.

"You and me both," dad agreed.

Dean glanced at Sam who frowned and was clearly thinking he didn't need rescuers.

"We'll get the story from the cops in the morning," dad said. "Sam, you head back to the mine and give it another once over but you stay out of the tunnels."

"But what about tonight? Ghosts are more active at night," Sam said.

Dad shook his head. "We don't need activity right now. We need to figure out who the ghost was from earlier so we can find whatever it is that's keeping him stuck here and get rid of it."

"So you saw it? When?" Dean asked, looking from Sam to dad. He froze at the sight of the bandage he hadn't noticed before. "You were attacked?"

"Nothing serious. It's a vengeful spirit but we've got a hell of a lineup. Two-hundred potential suspects to go through and tonight we ruled out at least 20," dad answered. "We're done for the night. Get some sleep."

Dad's 'conversation over' cue.

So not only did Sammy run away but he went into the actual mine? An unstable mine that had a history of exploding and killing everyone inside?

Without knowing who the freaking target was in the first place?

And on top of it, dad was injured, obviously not badly, but what the hell happened there?

Fine. If the conversation for tonight was dead and Sam was being stubborn and uncooperative then fine. Sleep on it and maybe in the morning Dean wouldn't want to beat some sense into both of them.

* * *

James R. Page.

Born November 1st 1899 in Wicklow, Ireland. Immigrated to the USA in 1913 and lived in Pennsylvania up til the explosion.

The picture staring back at Sam matched the twisted, angry ghost they saw in the tunnels.

Sam closed the binder quietly. Dad and Dean snored and slept and last thing Sam wanted was to wake them.

He had a match for the spirit. Now all that was left was hunting down the bones to salt and burn them so James could rest in peace (more or less).

Sam had a hunch that there wasn't much in the way of graves, though. Most of the miners had headstones sure, but the bones were down in that mine.

And this was Sam's hunt. Had been since he started research on it and he'd finish it because then dad and Dean wouldn't have to have this insane back and forth anymore about keeping little "Sammy" safe from danger.

It was just a salt and burn. Easy as pie.

Sam grabbed his backpack, emptied the unimportant stuff and started packing. Salt, a lighter, matches (just in case), and everything else he'd need.

When they woke up in the morning they could hit the road and find some other monster to hunt because this one would be taken care of.

Sam liked that dad had his back earlier. He wanted that more and he was going to make that happen.


	8. (A Brief) Interlude 666

The walk to the mine didn't take long. The cop cars that'd been parked out front earlier were gone, but the 'do not cross' tape was still in place.

Since the first body dropped a few nights ago, nothing else had happened. Locals probably thought it was a one and done situation. Accidents happen and whatnot.

Sam turned his flashlight on, snuck under the tape and walked inside.

Yeah, just as creepy as before but this time no sunlight.

Sam went to the door that led into the building and passed through. The air seemed stiffer, but probably because it'd cooled down outside.

Dad wanted him to stay in the main work space. Out of the tunnels where it was 'safe' but Sam looked around these rooms the first time he'd been here. He hadn't found anything, certainly not bones this high out of the tunnels, but nothing in the way of personal effects either.

People – most likely relatives or police – had probably cleared this space out sometime in the last almost-century.

James was in the tunnel which meant that whatever was keeping him bound to earth was in the tunnel.

Sam went to the big gate that led to the mine and pushed it open. He was used to the dark by now, but still not the cold.

He'd gone left before, found dad behind that cave in – and that's where James'd been.

And if a cave in happened, seemingly out of nowhere, to trap dad inside? Maybe that meant something didn't want dad sniffing around any more.

Sam went left and after a while ended up at the cave in. He climbed up the rocks to where dad'd been able to get through and flashed the light beyond.

It just kept going and going like a black hole. But something caught the light - it flashed when Sam hit it at the right angle.

There was more down there, probably including the bones of James Page.

Sam climbed over the cave in and jumped down. He flashed his light to look for whatever it'd bounced off.

He hurried over and leaned down to dig it out. A pair of glasses?

Dad didn't wear glasses. Neither did James, at least not in his photo.

Sam stood and put them in his pocket. It was maybe a clue, if nothing else. Help them determine who'd been working in this part of the mine maybe?

He kept walking and came to a mine trap door. Or at least what was left of one. The wood was black and rotted.

Sam kicked it in to get through. He'd officially gone further than dad now.

Apparently he kicked too hard. A big hunk of old wood went flying down the tunnel, clattering and banging and breaking the otherwise total silence – and then it kept going, but quieter.

And finally a soft, barely heard thud.

Sam went forward again and kept the light on the ground to look for it. No luck. Where'd it go?

He came to a second trap door, this one a gate like the main gate to get into the mine. It was open and what was behind it pretty much answered the mysterious disappearing wood act.

Mine shaft.

A friggin' _deep_ mine shaft.

Sam leaned forward a little and flashed the light down the hole. It went on, just as long as the tunnels. He flashed the sides of the shaft. Ladder was kinda still there, more or less. Old metal rungs crept all the way down into the dark. Tetanus waiting to happen.

He was definitely further than dad'd been now. And he had a hunch that James and his bones were down there too.

Sam reached out for the first rung of the ladder to start climbing down. Only, he never made contact.

Because something pushed him.

Sam fell, dropped his flashlight, and both of them smacked against stone and metal and wood all the way down.

And then he hit the bottom.


	9. Blinded by the (Flash)Light

Whatever he was lying on, it was cool.

Sam struggled to open his eyes. Something was bright. Like sunlight. He blinked away something sticky and wet.

He reached up to wipe it off but stopped short and cried out.

Ok, so he was hurt somewhere. Everywhere, actually. It felt like everywhere.

Sam looked away from the light and saw rocks and stone and not a whole lot else.

Right. Mines. Ghosts. The hunt.

Since his one arm didn't want to cooperate, Sam reached out with the other and grabbed the flashlight. He pointed it up and looked.

He'd been lucky. That was a long drop.

But considering how dizzy he got after moving just a little, maybe he wasn't all that lucky. Something started dripping into his eyes again.

Sam turned the light around and looked himself over. Blood and lots of it. And a lot of pain too.

His arm looked like it'd been through a meat grinder. He must've caught on the rocks on the way down.

Sam felt something sharp digging into him. The glasses he had in his pocket busted and one of the shattered lenses dug its way into his hip. Definitely not fatal or anything, but it wasn't exactly a paper cut.

And last but not least…

He reached up with his good arm and wiped his face.

More blood. Head wound.

Sam sat for a second, processing. Cuts, probably a concussion, and a broken arm. Sam'd seen enough broken bones his was broken for sure.

Not to mention all the blood loss.

Sam'd packed some first aid stuff, but mostly focused on the hunting part.

And on top of everything was the other big problem.

How'd he fall in the first place?

Sam wasn't exactly graceful, but he wasn't stupid or clumsy enough to take a nose dive.

Then he remembered that something pushed him.

Sam pushed himself up and leaned against the wall. His backpack made it down with him, but all the crap he had inside it was scattered around.

Sam looked up again. He could probably climb out probably. There was a ladder, but it was rusted and missing a few rungs.

Yeah. It was gonna be a fun time climbing that thing with a broken arm and a concussion.

Sam sat back down against the wall. Honestly, should he bother?

His first attempt at hunting alone and this is what happened. He'd go back to dad and Dean, beat to hell, and nothing to show for it.

He hadn't even been beat to hell in a fight like a normal person. Just falling. Like an idiot.

Dad'd only barely agreed to let him join. Now though?

Yeah. Sammy would be put on research duty. Probably indefinitely.

It wasn't just that though.

He couldn't go back like this.

If Sam wasn't around they'd all be better off. Even when he tried to help he screwed it all up.

Dad would have to patch him up. Dean would be stuck babysitting him even more.

Sam wasn't going back empty handed. He wouldn't.

It was just a broken arm and a bump on the head. Dad and Dean had been through worse.

Sam grabbed some gauze from his backpack. It took a while, but he eventually patched himself up – more or less.

He stood, gathered all his crap, and stuffed it back in his backpack. He slung it over his good shoulder and glanced down the tunnel. There was another trap door ahead.

At the very least, there should be something to salt and burn up ahead. This was the general area where people'd been stuck after the explosion.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks.

Something opened the trap door and it was walking towards Sam. He couldn't see it; the flashlight didn't reach that far. He could hear it though.

It had to be the ghost. It had to be. But ghosts didn't have footsteps. They didn't need to open doors.

Maybe he was going nuts. He hit his head bad enough; it could be post-concussion insanity or something.

"Hey kid."

* * *

This was not a sexy dream.

It definitely started off as one, but nope. Snatched away before getting to the good part. This new dream, though? This right here was in no way sexy or nice or whatever.

Because while Dean should've been dreaming about the cute gas station clerk he'd hit on earlier, Cindy was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, some dirt covered, 1910s-looking son of a bitch stood where Cindy'd been seconds ago. The guy stared him down with a grin.

So, weird. Ok. That was fine. But it went from weird to bad quick.

Sam was behind the guy, looking way too pale and freaked out. Someone was standing way too friggin' close to Sammy, but he couldn't make out who. But by God, he was going to because whoever it was had his kid brother freaking out.

 _"Everything has a pedigree,"_ the guy in front of him said.

Dean shot him a look. "What?"

 _"Dean!"_ Dean's heart dropped to his gut. He booked past the man to Sam.

 _"Everything has a pedigree,"_ the man repeated. He vanished as Dean passed.

Sam disappeared, too, and the freak that'd been with him.

"Sammy? Sam?" Dean looked around.

Nothing but darkness and a single, blinding light.

"Sam!"

"Dean."

Dean jerked away and blinked at the light. He rubbed his eyes as things came into focus.

"Dad?" Right. It was a dream. Right.

"Sam's gone."

Ok, or maybe not. Dean glanced over to the other bed that, sure enough, was minus one little brother.

"What...dad, what the hell? Where is he?"

"If I had to guess, I'm betting the mine."

"That stupid –"

"Calm down."

"Calm down? It's a blown out mine and Sammy's going one v one with a freakin' ghost. What the hell, why would he just up and go it alone? Damn it."

"Get geared up."

Dad was not looking too happy. Which, good! Sam deserved whatever ass chewing he was gonna get. In fact, Dean would add a little ass kicking of his own.

The kid was already a freakin' magnet for the supernatural. He single handedly kept the first aid industry in business.

The one comfort was that the place was close. Sam probably couldn't've gotten into trouble. Even if he did, it was a ghost – Sam knew ghosts. Not exactly comforting but Dean'd take it over a vamp.

Dean grabbed everything he needed – gun, salt, lighter, knife – and followed dad out the door.


	10. Have a Drink on Me

"I said hey."

Sam stared, heart pounding. He hoped a flashlight would be enough to kick whatever this thing was' ass.

"You deaf?"

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked.

"Looking for you."

Sam's eyes widened. "What?"

The stranger laughed and walked closer. Sam tried to back up. He couldn't.

"Don't piss your panties. I'm kidding. Mostly." He stopped in front of Sam and looked down. "I'm surprised your daddy let you come down here. Finally cut the cord?"

"Who are you?"

The man shrugged. "No one important. Though I really am looking for something.. Finding you, though, one of John Winchester's boys all alone? Now that's just a nice surprise."

Dad had a few unfriendly acquaintances but none of them seemed like the type to hang out in a mine for no reason. At least not unless –

"You're a hunter?" Sam tried.

The man puffed out a laugh and eyed Sam in consideration. "Yeah. Let's go with that."

Sam glared. "It's not a hard question."

"Well that depends, doesn't it kid? Hunting ain't a one rule game. There's a lotta kinds of hunter. Lotta things to hunt, too."

"So what do you hunt?" Sam asked, sensing the threat.

"And there's the million dollar question."

"Look man-"

"Oh hey, kid – you know you're bleedin'?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. For a supposedly abandoned mine there sure was a lot of crap going on down here.

"What happened?" the guy pressed. He was smiling.

"I fell."

"You fell?"

"You deaf?" Sam quipped.

The man broke into a full-blown grin and barked out a laugh. "Damn. What a temper. Well, seems your daddy ain't doin' such a bang up job trainin' you if you're clumsy enough to fall down a mine shaft."

Sam reddened. He wasn't dad's number one fan, but if this guy thought Sam was gonna let him bad mouth him-

"You bein' all banged and bruised up…you know, it kinda makes you look like a fruit ripe for pluckin'."

Sam knit his brows and frowned at the creep. "Look, we've got this hunt covered. And my dad and brother are right behind me. You can leave."

"No," the man said, his eyes bleeding black, "I don't think I will."

Sam went flying and crashed into the wall with a sick thud. The man grinned, his hand raised. Sam gasped in pain and struggled against the force pinning him, but it was no good.

"Seriously, Sammy Winchester. Once in a lifetime opportunity here. I'm not walkin' away from that. Your daddy keeps you on a tight leash, you know that? "

The man-or whatever it was- slowly walked towards Sam who tried in vain to free himself. Every move made his head spin and his stomach flop with nausea. When he looked up, the man stood an arms length away still wearing that stupid smirk. He grabbed Sam 's chin, turned his head left and right and gave him the once over.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer," Sam grunted.

The man snorted, "Your brother's rubbing off on you." Sam felt a little flicker of pride and glared harder. "Don't you worry, Sammy. I'm not gonna kill you. Just maybe give you a little head start."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam muttered, briefly relieved when the man released his chin. His relief was short lived.

The guy didn't answer and instead reached into his pocket. He pulled out a switchblade, small but sharp looking. The steel caught the bleed off from the flashlight, its serrated edges glinting dangerously.

"What are you doing?" Sam struggled to get the question over the growing lump in his throat.

Not a peep. The man ignored him and sliced open his own palm without so much as a wince. The cut was deep, blood bubbling up and dripping down his arm. It trickled down his fingers as he looked up and fixed Sam with a black-eyed stare and a smile.

"Thirsty, kid?"

* * *

Notes:

 _It's short, but sweet. Sorry for the lull in updates for any and all who are following my works. I'm taking 4 classes on top of full time work, so my attention has been usurped. I'm 100% done with school in December though, so guess who gets to focus more on writing?_

 _Still workin' on all my works though, so keep an eye out for updates!_


	11. (un)Fortunate Son

_"Thirsty kid?"_

Sam looked up from the wound and the blood. The guy hadn't even winced when he sliced into his own skin and that wasn't exactly a paper cut.

But then, this wasn't just some normal guy. Those black eyes proved that much.

"You're a demon," Sam muttered and the man looked surprised, but amused.

"How'd you-"

Satisfied he'd been right, Sam cut him off, "Read it in a book. Though I gotta say, you're kinda disappointing."

The demon laughed and raised his free hand. A burst of pressure crashed into Sam, pushed him further against the stone walls. He grunted out, adrenaline and pain drowning out the growing fear in his gut.

"Well why don't we fix that?" The demon stepped closer.

Sam tried to push himself free, get away as much as possible from the approaching threat. "What are you doing?" he asked with a little less bravado.

"Figured you could use a little pick me up after that fall," he raised his bloody hand to Sam's mouth.

"Not interested," he said, glaring at the guy past the trickle of crimson.

"It's an acquired taste. Now acquire it." Sam sealed his lips, pressed them tight when the demon's hand crashed forward, the pressure painful. He smelled it, gross and hot copper or iron overwhelmed by the smell of rotten eggs. He gagged and turned his head away. He'd been around enough blood in his life to know that the rotten smell was anything but human.

It was warm, dripped down his lips. Sam opened his eyes and fixed the stranger with a defiant glare.

"Come on, just a taste. You'll like it, kid. Trust me."

Yeah, in what world would he ever trust a freaking demon?

The demon ran out of patience quick. With his other hand, he grabbed Sam's nose and pinched it closed, effectively blocking his airways.

Crap.

Sam held his breath as long as possible, but it was getting on two minutes (he counted). It was breath or pass out which, considering present company, was even less appealing. Black edged at his sight and he closed his eyes.

Desperate for air, he gasped and that was all the chance the demon needed. Warm blood leaked past his lips and tasted just like it smelled – foul. He bit down, hard, and the demon cried out and jerked his hand away.

Sam spit out what he could – he hadn't gotten all that much in the first place. He licked his lips, trying to gather what he could in his mouth, and spit a wad of it at the ground, kept spitting up as much as he could get out. Still, he swallowed some and knowing that was terrifying.

"Little shit," the demon mumbled while tending his hand, glancing up after a moment. As if forgetting the pain he stood still, eyes on Sam. He watched expectantly but with something else, something piercing and careful and eager.

 _"Sammy!"_

They both looked down the tunnel. The quiet echo died off. The demon grinned and looked back.

"Guess we've got a little company."

Sam glared at him but suddenly his heart skipped a beat. Like a jolt, like missing the last step of a staircase. The demon smiled when Sam licked his lips again, though this time without any intention of spitting it out. It wasn't so foul anymore. Savory, kind of an after-taste and..

Sam knit his brows, heart speeding and his breathing growing shallow. What the hell train of thought was that?

"Waddya say, Sammy?" the demon asked as he held up his hand and cut into it deeper. Blood poured from the wound. "Next round's on me."

Sam stared, horrified at himself but unable to tear his eyes away from the steady trickle of red. "What… what'd you do to me?" he asked, sounding afraid of his own voice.

 _"Sam!"_

It was distant, but getting closer.

"Tick tock, kid."

"Go to hell," Sam shot back, tearing his eyes up. But only for a moment before they were back on the blood.

The demon leaned forward, Sam wincing away, and ripped a hunk of his shirt. He wrapped his bloody hand with a sigh. "Just tryin' to do you a favor."

"Yeah, like I…" but Sam trailed off, watched the blood seep through the cloth.

The demon looked up, lip curled. He unwrapped the cloth and slammed his bloody hand against Sam's mouth, pinched his nose and pushed, hard. "One more for the road."

Sam gaped, struggled – his eyes watered from the pain and he half-wondered if the bastard broke his jaw. He'd been caught off guard and the fresh wound was deep. Blood gushed into his mouth and it took him longer than he'd admit to seal his lips. He swallowed and tried turning his head away, writhed in the stranger's grasp until he was satisfied.

Finally, mercifully, it pulled away. The demon stared a moment longer, radiating satisfaction, then turned and walked off. He disappeared down the hall, slowly skulked into the shadows while wrapping his hand.

Sam dropped as his invisible prison disappeared. He fell in a heap, dazed, knowing he should run as fast and as far as possible in the opposite direction, but he couldn't.

He stayed planted, frozen in place, and tried to calm his racing pulse.

* * *

"Sammy!"

"Enough, Dean."

Dean shot dad a look, but kept forging ahead. How much further could it possibly go? Sam should've heard them by now – Dean's shouts demanded as much. "Look – here," Dean said, trotting ahead and pausing at a ledge.

"Looks like a mine shaft," dad muttered, shining his light down the crevice. "Ladder's half rusted out, too."

Dean immediately reached out to get started on the climb. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"It's missing half the rungs. Sammy wouldn't go that route, he knows better."

"And what if he's down there?" Dean barked, unable to hide the worry, "Cause I sure as hell don't know where else he'd be!"

"Dark hair, about yay high?"

Dad and Dean snapped their eyes toward the stranger, a man standing a ways down the tunnel.

"Covered in blood?" he pressed with a grin. It wavered a little when he was staring down the barrel of Dean's gun two seconds later.

"Where is he, you son of a-"

"That's not gonna do much," dad muttered, setting a hand on Dean's arm. "Smell that?"

Glaring, not really happy to be disarmed, Dean looked from his dad to the man and sniffed the air. "…that's sulfur."

"Hey, don't look at me," the man joked, his easy nature getting under Dean's skin like needles.

"Yeah. I know we've got a vengeful spirit in these tunnels. Didn't pick up on any demonic omens though. You haven't been here long," dad noted, watchful eyes locked on the man.

The stranger shrugged and walked closer. "I got presented with a pretty unique, what can I say? I'm a sucker for tempting opportunities." He finally stepped into what little light their flashlights gave and the sight was bloody.

His forearm, and mostly his hand, just caked in still-drying blood.

"Where's Sam?" Dean heard his father ask, tone cutting like thunder through the panic.

"I swear to God, if you hurt'im..!"

"Kid might be a little hopped up. That's it. I wouldn't go killin' him, trust me. He's my favorite."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snapped, aiming his gun anyway.

"Wouldn't you like to -!" The demon screeched in pain – dad beat him to it, a spray of holy water rained down and it sizzled, unholy smoke rising off its skin. The thing railed in agony, its eyes going black as it hissed at them and dove on the offensive.

Dad was a step ahead, doused the thing with another blast of water. "Dean, exorcism – now!"

Crap – Sam was usually better at this stuff. But Sam was in danger and there was blood and a demon and – Dean prattled off the exorcism without a thought, hatred imbued in every syllable.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

The thing writhed, fury warping its features beyond any semblance of humanity.

"omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion"

"Get down!"

They dropped as the thing threw its head back, putrid black smoke climbing up its throat. It spilled out like vomit, swirling and twisting in the tiny cavern until is whipped through the tunnels, washing over them in a blast of heat.

And then it was quiet, the smoke gone, and the man's body fell with a thud.

Dad brushed himself off and took a knee at the man's side. He looked back to Dean after a moment and shook his head.

Not much of a win.

Dean heaved himself up, calling over, "Dad- Sammy..!" and without another word double-timed it down the mine shaft.

He went quick, fast enough that dad's "Dean, wait-" was a reverberating rumbled and bits of rust were eating into his palms. It hurt like a bitch but it was the furthest thing from his mind.

It took sixty seconds, felt like sixty years, but his feet hit dirt and he hit bottom. Dean turned, did a sweep with his flashlight, and felt like puking then and there.

Sam's crap, or some of it, was strewn about the ground. Like he dumped his backpack out and swung it around. He heard dad above making his way down. And then, in the quiet black, he heard breathing.

Any other time, any other case, it'd be creepy and he might consider going the other way, but Dean ran straight for the source.

Dean shined his light and there he was, a little shadow curled in on himself and hyperventilating. Blood in his hair, arm looking busted…blood on his face, his mouth.

"Sammy? Hey," he tried, walking forward, and then stopped halfway there.

Because Sam didn't move an inch, didn't look over – and the vibe he was giving off…?

Shame, in waves. And…and something else. Something that'd never been there before. 

* * *

Thank you for the likes and reviews I loooooove you guys :' )

Will be updating a little more regularly because SCHOOL IS DONE SUNDAY YAY


	12. That Smell

His tongue tingled. Whatever was flowing through his veins it was like sparks and it prickled his skin. Sam pressed his hands flat into the dirt, hard. Like Atlas, he felt he could move the world, push himself away from it and hold it up without even trying.

Bits of rock and rubble bit into his skin. They cut and scraped until the scent of iron reached him, the warmth of his own blood felt hot.

Sam licked his dry lips.

And then he returned to himself. Like a man possessed, he looked at his arms, at his skin, felt the power pulsing through every atom and stared down in horror as realization set in.

Poison. Evil. And it had him thriving.

He heard his name. Heard his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean asked and the quiet question slammed into Sam like a planet.

Wide, dark eyes darted to Dean and locked on. He was afraid to look away, to blink in case Dean might disappear. Sam shot up and flung himself at his brother, caught him in a hug so tight he was sure it was painful.

"Woah…hey. I've got you," Dean trailed off. He slipped his arms around the kid, the relief at seeing him okay stomped down by unease. Something was not right, at all, and Dean's terror fought with murderous rage. "You okay?"

Sam just squeezed tighter.

Heavy footfalls signaled dad's arrival. The beam of his flashlight shined around the tunnels, moved from a small trail of blood drops to Sam clinging to Dean for dear life.

"He's hurt," Dean informed him, gently pulling back to give his brother's busted arm a look. He paused and locked up a second at the sight of just so much blood.

And the smell –

"His head," dad muttered as he closed the gap. He eased them all down, took a knee, and brushed back some of Sam's matted hair. "Head wound. Might have a concussion."

Dad turned Sam a little in Dean's arms (the kid wasn't letting go anytime soon) and took a look at both his eyes.

Blown pupils. Like the he'd done a few lines.

"Sam," dad started, voice firm to bring the kid back down to earth, "I need you to focus on me. You're okay now. We're here. The demon's gone."

Sam didn't want to look at dad. He barely wanted to look at Dean. He couldn't look at their faces when he was feeling this way. When he was wanting a little more, just a little, knowing exactly how sick and messed up and how much a freak it made him.

"Sammy," Dean encouraged.

With a shuddering breath, the youngest Winchester looked up at dad and nodded a little. Whatever this was, whatever was going on, Sam already dug himself into a hole by hitting the mine alone.

"Yeah. I'm…I'm okay. Sorry."

Dean looked to dad who nodded, set a gentle but heavy hand on Sam's shoulder. There was a hint of anger; just the slightest touch because if Sam hadn't come here alone like this, he wouldn't have been vulnerable. But the relief at seeing him alive – the ire at seeing him beaten – those won out in the end. "Tell me what happened."

"I uh – I'm sorry," Sam started, but dad shook his head. Right – save the apologies for later. "I was looking for James – the uh, the ghost. It's a guy named – anyway. The mineshaft. I dunno. I fell, but something pushed me. It felt like it at least."

"Jesus, dude. You fell? From the top?" Dean muttered, his grip tightening a little.

"Yeah." Sam looked at his arm as if remembering how much it hurt for the first time since the demon showed. "I guess I was out for a few. Tried patching up my arm and then…"

"Demon," dad determined.

"Yeah."

"He hurt you?"

Sam knit his brows, unsure how to answer. He wiped his lips with his good hand, eyes on the dry streak of red. "I'm okay."

Dad looked him over, like he was studying him for something. Sam couldn't read his expression. It was the first time dad ever looked at him that way.

"As much as I'm loving the debrief, can we get the hell outta here? He needs first aid," Dean cut through the quiet.

Dad's weird look lingered a second longer and then he nodded. He scooped up Sam's bag while Dean scooped up Sam and helped the kid climb on to piggyback.

He was fifteen and normally this would be humiliating, but for now, in the cold and dark of the mine with this weird, tempting fire still burning through his veins, Sam didn't want anything more.

* * *

In the dingy little motel the heater was on full blast almost to the point of making things uncomfortably warm. Sammy wasn't one for heat. In summer, morning, noon, and night, the kid sweated like he'd just run a marathon.

So color Dean unsettled when he looked over to see his brother burrowing further under the cheap comforter.

Shortly after they got back, dad ducked out to do God knows what but apparently something more important than tending to his probably concussed and traumatized son. Dean hadn't left the kid's side, sat perched on the bed next to him even now after they'd finished dressing and bandaging the nastier wounds.

"Quit moving around so much or your friggin' arm is gonna stay broke," he muttered.

"Sorry."

Dean frowned, huffed a soft sigh. Sam had been quiet except for answering direct questions or apologizing. No bitching. Definitely no talking about whatever else happened in that damn mine.

It seemed pretty open and closed. The demon was gone, Sam was mostly in one piece, and dad was tying up whatever loose ends they had here. Dad would knock out the hunt, Sam would recover, and then they would hit the road.

But were things ever that easy?

His thoughts were interrupted by more wriggling under the covers. "Damn it Sammy, quit squirming! If it's too hot, tell me, I'll turn it down," Dean barked, "Figured you'd want some heating after being stuck underground."

"No, it's – fine." Sam clutched at the blanket with shaking hands. He turned on his side to face away from Dean and scrunched his eyes closed. Sweat clung to his brow and matted his hair, but he was freezing.

He edged under the comforter more, the scent of old cigarette smoke pungent but at least it was different. At least it was unique and worlds away from the _other_ stuff. The stuff he couldn't get off his mind no matter what.

If Dean would just go away, go take a shower or go to sleep or something then… Sam could… well he didn't know. He felt like his brain was inflating, about to burst in his skull.

And then, all of a sudden, it was ice cold.

Sam shivered under the blanket and saw the fine mist of his own breath. Dean apparently noticed the same thing because he was up and out of bed. He had a gun in one hand and was checking the salt lines with his other, green eyes darting around the room for any signs of penetration.

"Dean?" Sam asked, sliding out of bed to find a weapon of his own.

"Sammy, stay put," Dean bit. The lights flickered, drawing both their eyes. "Isn't this douche supposed to be stuck in the mine?"

Sam slid out of bed anyway and grabbed the iron rod from earlier. His knees buckled a little, but he rode it out and backed in against Dean.

Translucent and iridescent, the ghost of James Page manifested in their kitchenette and sent the brothers flying.

Sam slammed into the headboard and Dean into the side table, both of them calling out in pain.

James flashed in front of Sam and reached out to him. The next second he exploded in a blast of vapor. Dean lowered his shotgun and dizzily stumbled over. "Sammy, you okay?"

"Dean!" Sam's cry fell short. James reappeared and had Dean by the throat, his frigid fingers tight, tighter than any living human could ever manage.

Blue in the face, Dean struggled and kicked straight through the apparition.

"Dean!" Sam cried again. Just past James, situated innocently on the other bed was his backpack with one shiny, busted lens peaking out.

 _The glasses!_

Iron whirred through the air, whistling as it ripped through the ghost who disappeared and dropped Dean unceremoniously to the ground. Sam started for him, to make sure he was breathing and at least ok, but James couldn't give it a freakin' rest.

Fingers grabbed Sam's throat, began choking the life out of him. He fought, ignoring the agonizing pain of his broken limb. The ghost slammed him against the wall but froze when a soft groaning caught his attention. He smiled at Sam, sneered, and dropped him, turning to finish what he started with Dean.

Sam looked desperately to his backpack, his hand outstretched and reaching because if he could only – if he could just…

Smiling, James's flared and he descended on Dean, going in for the kill.

Frozen, locked in place. James hand hovered over Dean's chest, just short of running him through. He looked at Sam, glasses in one hand and a lighter in the other. The backpack sat in a heap at his feet.

James screamed, his inhuman shrieks filling the tiny motel room as he and the glasses went up in flames.

The blazing heat dwindled as quickly as it came and left nothing but the cool remnants of a haunting behind. Dean's quiet coughs filled the quiet and Sam watched his big brother pull himself up onto the bed.

Sam looked down. He stared at the backpack that had been clear across the room one second and in his hands the next.

* * *

Notes:

I really love not having school :)

 _Kas3y_ Thank you very much!


	13. You Don't Know How it Feels

"Didn't find anything. Nothing on the EMF. Not a damn thing."

Sam and Dean looked up as dad walked in and immediately stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at them, looked at the torn up room. "Someone wanna tell me what the hell happened?"

"That freakin' ghost decided to hitch a ride on one of us," Dean muttered, wincing a little as he finally straightened out. Dad's eyes widened. He frowned, gave both of them the once over.

"Well you both look alright."

"Yeah. Sammy kicked his ass back to limbo." They both looked at the youngest.

Sam kept his eyes on his backpack, on the blackened remains of the glasses. "Yeah."

He felt dad sizing him up – but not like before. Not that weird look like in the mines. Approval came off dad in waves and it was just another new addition to Sam's already upside-down world.

"Was it our guy?" dad asked.

Sam finally glanced up and tried to not look as freaked as he felt. He nodded, "Yeah. The uh- it was the glasses. I guess his spirit latched onto them or something."

"Alright, then. Get your gear and load up. We'll hit the road. I might have another hunt lined up."

Dean glanced over to his little brother expecting the usual argument to erupt any second now.

Dead quiet, just a little nod and the kid went to grab his things. Dean frowned and did the same.

* * *

Sam was a Jedi.

What other explanation could there be? It was stupid (awesome) and probably not really the reason (please let it be the reason) but what other possible explanation could there be? Back then, Sam wanted the damn backpack, the glasses – more than anything. And then he made it happen.

So, Jedi.

"What a freak."

Sam jerked in the back seat and looked at Dean through the rearview mirror.

"What was a demon doin' in the mines anyway?" Dean finished.

"Nothing good," dad turned down the radio, "Research didn't show anything special about that town. Just the haunting."

"Freaky," Dean muttered.

Sam wasn't a Jedi. He wasn't a superhero and his power didn't come from radioactive spiders or something.

It came from blood. He drank blood – _demon_ blood and now he could use the force.

He pushed everything that happened down, basically ignored it until they finally got everything packed and were already miles away from Mather, Pennsylvania en route to the next thing that would try to kill them.

But – but crap, that blood did something to Sam. It changed him and it did it fast, too. His gut clenched and a bead of sweat trickled past his cheek, but it was too damn cold and would it kill them up there to turn on the heat?

What if… what if he was a case one day? Just another thing to hunt down. What if he was a monster?

What if dad and dean… what if they had to kill him?

"Where're we goin' anyway?" Dean's voice cut through.

"Fairfax County. Virginia," dad supplied, "Might not be our kind of thing, but it's worth checking out. Doing a favor for an old friend."

"Who?"

"No one you know."

Dean snorted and looked past his shoulder. "Can you believe this, Sammy?"

Sam looked at him with the most haunted eyes he'd ever seen.

"Woah – hey, man, what's with that look? You okay?"

Dad looked in the rearview.

"Sam?"

"I think…I'm gonna be sick."

The tires screeched and the Impala rolled onto the shoulder, horns blaring as the cars behind them swerved around and whirred past.

"Dean, help him out," dad said when they rolled to a stop. He slid out the driver's side, Dean out the passenger. Sam flung his door open, landed hands-first and threw up.

He felt Dean's hand settle on his neck, the other flat on his forehead. Kid was clammy, sweaty but cold and looking far from the rosy-faced little snot he was used to.

"God damn demon. I'm hunting the son of a bitch down," Dean hissed, his promise hot against Sam's ear. "Jesus, Sammy. He really gave you the once over.

Dad came around the back of the car, took a knee beside his sons and looked Sam over. He brushed Dean's hand off the kid's forehead, replaced it with his own.

"Sam," he said, "Did it do anything else to you? Anything at all?"

Sam's stomach lurched again. He dry heaved, and closed his eyes tight.

"Sam," dad pressed, his big hand on Sam's shoulder, giving a squeeze.

No getting out of this. This was it. Face it like a man. He looked up through his bangs, dark and terrified eyes locking onto his father's face.

"He… gave me his blood."

Dean looked at dad, back to Sam, his gut clenching.

"Please don't kill me," Sam whispered.

* * *

Short & sweet :)

Sorry about the delay folks. Was a busy week last week and currently with family for the holidays - first time in a _year_ so may be a little slow rolling until I'm on my own again.

I hope y'all have an awesome holiday and, as always, thank you for reading


	14. Devil's Child

"We need to cool him down."

"I'm goin' as fast as I can."

"He's burning up!"

"Dean," they caught eyes in the rear view, "I'm worried, too, but keep your head on straight." Dad looked away.

Dean glared at the back of his father's head. He adjusted Sam in his lap, the kid shivering as Dean hugged him in closer. He brushed Sam's matted hair aside, grit his teeth when he felt the sweat – cold and clammy – that left Sammy with skin that'd give a ghost a run for its money.

The countryside was a blur of darkness, walls of mountainside and forest loomed on either side of the narrow highway.

"Dad...what the hell- I mean you think it was poison or something?" Dean asked. He caught dad's eyes again, watched him look back to the road and the blazing headlights.

"I don't know."

He didn't know.

"He was serious," Dean pushed. Dad turned a little and looked back at them in the backseat. "He seriously thought we'd put a hit on him. Like it's his fault that demon fucker-"

"Language."

"-bastard forced him. Why would he – I mean what the hell? Why'd Sammy think you'd go executioner on him?"

It was dark, too dark to see dad's expression at least. He didn't give an answer. Dean clutched his brother closer, knowing it was too tight, but screw it.

* * *

The motel was quiet except for the familiar hum of the heater. Sam peeled open his eyes, felt the crust at their corners tumble away when he rubbed at them. He turned his head toward the soft snoring of someone lying beside him.

Dean.

He looked the other way, toward the other bed. There was dad.

Why?

Why was he alive?

They didn't know what he was. _He_ didn't know what he was. Maybe he told them about the blood, sure. He told'em. But they didn't know what he could do. They didn't know what it made him.

 _"Monster."_

 _"Vampire."_

Because what else was there on the planet that would want more? What else wanted to drink blood?

"Sammy?"

Freaking Dean and his freaking weird sixth sense, seriously.

His big brother rubbed at his own eyes, but concern already marked his brow. There were lines etched in his face, ones that had no business being on him at nineteen.

"Hey kid," Dean said, the lines fading a little. He smiled, "How you feelin'?"

Sam thought about it a second because he felt like crap. Broken arm, concussion probably, but it was more than bumps and bruises. It was more than aches and pains.

"I'm fine," he lied.

Dean knit his brows, the smile fading to a frown. "That right..? Busted arm, smashed head. But yeah, sure. You're fine."

Sam felt the red flood his cheeks and looked away. Dean seriously shouldn't... Sam wasn't his little brother anymore. He was something else. Something bad.

This wasn't going to end well. He could see it, right there.

 _Wasn't your fault, Sammy, but you kept on going with it – kept making the same mistake._

 _Again. And again.  
_

 _The first time it wasn't your fault. But you did it again. And again and again and again to get to oblivion. That sick feeling. Power._

"So?"

Sam blinked, turned his attention to Dean. "So what?"

"What happened?" Dean asked in that weirdly gentle Dean-way. Like he talked to Sam when he was a kid - real little - and got picked on by the kids at school. Sam knit his brow.

"I told you."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me why."

"I don't know, Dean, okay? It just...I don't know. It just wanted to mess with me or something."

Dean didn't say anything, just looked at him with those big green eyes. Just listened.

Sam groaned in frustration and buried his face in his pillow.

"I don't know," Sam muttered, "I just... don't... Look, Dean..? Don't tell dad."

"I promise."

Sam turned his head, dared to look at his big brother who looked for all he was worth utterly solemn.

Damn it.

Sam pushed himself up, leaned away from the pillow and spared their sleeping father a long glance.

Finally, "I moved something."

Dean raised a brow.

"With my mind."

Sam looked back, hesitance screaming every inch of the way. "I don't know what it did to me, but... it did something."

Dean was quiet a while, just looking at Sam. Then at the bed, at the door- dad, and the window. Anything. Everything. Processing.

Then, "Well, wait, Sammy. It coulda been Casper, right?"

Sam huffed, "Why would it hand me the stuff I'd need to salt and burn it?"

"We've seen it before, right? Maybe he didn't like being vengeful or whatever. Coulda know how to take the easy way out, right?"

Sam hadn't actually considered it before. There was a point there. Score one for Dean.

"Maybe," he agreed quietly, but Dean answered with a jerky nod

"See? You're fine dude, just a ghost. Nothin' we haven't dealt with before."

Sam didn't look convinced, but he bobbed his head in a compliant nod.

"Dad's not gonna kill you either, dumb ass."

He looked over to his brother, flush apparent. "I just thought-"

"Even if it were you doin' some kinda freaky Jedi mind trick- and I'm not sayin' it is - but even if it was, I mean c'mon, Sammy. Dad? Really?"

"Monster's a monster, Dean."

"Yeah, well a Sammy's a Sammy."

They stared each other down until Sam finally cracked a smile. It was tiny, but it was something.

* * *

Power line – power line. River, birds. The sun tucked behind purple, gray and pink clouds, all of them heavy and blotting and letting just a little orange peak through. Sam watched it all roll by, a blur.

Perfume and cigarette smoke – but it was faint – and dusk setting in too slow and the miles going by slower.

On one side of the sky it was already night, on the other the sun refused to sink.

Six hours from Virginia to New York and he had three to go.

The driver nearly hadn't let him board the bus, something about minors and Sam looked every bit his fifteen years – barely.

Father LeBore was the Chief Exorcist of the Archdiocese of New York and he was in Poughkeepsie. Father LeBore was gonna help Sam. He had to.

Sam flipped the book over in his hands, went back to the prologue. Demonology wasn't a fun topic. It was old and hard to read. Solomon and others like him didn't exactly speak English back then and the translations were worse than the epic poems.

Nothing he couldn't handle, though.

It was hard. Half the time Sam wanted to snort. Hall's writings and Solomon's excerpts explained angels and demons and everything in between - but it was the 'in between' that he knew. That was the part that was real - Sam'd seen it face to face and 'in between' was what killed his mom.

He wondered, just for a little bit somewhere around Philadelphia, if maybe the angels were real too.

The old lady across the aisle was giving him the stink eye again. Sam couldn't blame her – his phone had been ringing non-stop since mile marker ten and putting it on vibrate didn't help stifle the annoyance.

Sam mouthed a quick, 'sorry' at her and reached into his pocket, the buzzing against his leg starting to make it a little numb after call – what was it, thirty-six now?

Big, black letters stared accusingly up at him in a glow of blue.

 _Dean Calling_

Six calls from dad. Thirty from- Thirty- _one_ from Dean.

Sam looked back to the book in his hands. Old and delicate, it was stolen from the Library of Congress by some unnamed hunter at some unnamed time. A strange symbol, a hexagram – an Aquarian Star, Sam eventually figured out – was marked in ink on the top right corner.

No other marks, none could be found like it anywhere else in or on the book.

Sam tucked the symbol away as an interesting tidbit and opened the book to where he'd crimped one page's corner.

 _"Everything has a pedigree. Everything, whether animate or inanimate, whether a thing of sense or a creation of the mind, every idea whether based on fact or the growth of a delusion, every truth and every error, has its pedigree._

 _A pedigree is a line of ancestors, a chain of causes and effects, each link first an effect and then a cause. Rarely, if ever, is an effect the result of an isolated cause, but causes cross and interlace in such endless combinations, that novel effects are continually being produced."_

It read more like Darwin than Demonology.

Still, what a novel consideration it wasn't. Obviously everyone descended from everything. Everyone – everything could be traced back.

Hall's claim, though, was that this was true for the literal, honest to God, actual Devil.

Everything had a pedigree.

Why shouldn't Lucifer?

Sam swallowed the bile in his throat, swallowed it back down and let it fizz in his gut.

Maybe angels were real. But that would mean that there would be a bad one, too.

Would salt and consecrated silver keep the Devil away?

Sam set his forehead against the window; he let the cool glass temper the uncomfortable and feverish train of thought until it faded.

Two hours and forty-five minutes til New York.


	15. Over the Hills and Far Away (From Them)

**_Then_ **

Dean fell asleep sometime around three. Sam heard it, that subtle little change when Dean's breathing got quiet and slow. Even dad slept soundly.

That might be a good thing. Maybe not. Sam'd blacked out after he upchucked on the side of the highway but now he was awake. Wide awake, here in this dingy, hot motel that still managed a draft.

He didn't feel any better, not really. His guts weren't tormenting him anymore, but that wasn't the problem.

Sam slid out from under the covers, then froze up when he heard Dean sighing and turning over to hug in the crumpled comforter. Having a good dream probably - and Sam wasn't gonna wake him up no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he needed to hear Dean say it again – that dad wasn't gonna...

He had to know more and dad's journal might have answers.

Sam tip-toed across the carpet into the kitchenette and stopped in front of the small table. Dad's journal, a tin of salt, a knife and scattered papers littered the top of it. The journal had a pen parked in it, a makeshift bookmark that hadn't been there the last time Sam'd seen it.

This was recent. Dad made a new entry and Sam had no doubt it was about him.

Sam stared down at it, the black pen cap staring innocently back up at him. _Open me!_ it screamed at him, _I'm right here!_

He narrowed his eyes and glared, fingers twitching to just grab it and just look and, damn it, and see if-

It moved.

The pen moved.

Only a little, but the papers of the journal rustled and the innocent little cap twitched, twirled and then fell dead still the second Sam widened his eyes and stepped back.

He stared at it. He had to be hallucinating. Too many hours on the road, too much time stuck in a mine. It was a lack of oxygen down there or - or hell, he did have a concussion, after all.

But that damn stupid pen _moved!_

Sam looked past his shoulder, hesitantly as if expecting Dean and dad to be sitting up, watching and staring and accusing and judging. They were both lumpy silhouettes on their beds, a world away from whatever surreal dimension Sam found himself in.

He turned back, eyes on the journal and the pen.

He had to know.

How had he done it, though? With the ghost, well he'd wanted to salt and burn the glasses, but desperately. It'd been fear - and strong fear because Dean had been in real danger. And the pen - well, Sam wanting to know what dad wrote... was it fear?

What a crappy super power to have. To have to be scared to even use it.

Sam stared at the pen again. He fought the urge to raise his hand but lost and lifted it. A little blush crept to his cheeks. He could only imagine what Dean would say if he saw him, but Sam kept his hand up and focused. Open the journal and move the pen.

Focus. Open it.

Move.

Move!

The journal fell open. The pen rose, freaking _levitated_. And then it fell back to earth. It rolled away and fell off the table.

Dean was wrong.

It wasn't the ghost. It was _Sam_.

* * *

 **_Now_ **

If you took every city in America and shoved them all together then you still might not have New York. Manhattan alone was massive, and that was just one borough jam packed onto a tiny island. They'd passed through here once, at least Dean and foggy old memories told Sam as much, but he didn't really remember a lot aside from tons of tall buildings.

So, at least that hadn't changed.

Sam stood outside Penn Station, shuffling from one foot to the other while debating whether to start walking one way orthe other. A grid layout he could navigate, at least once he got the hang of it. Trying to keep out of the way, Sam stood off to the side of the walkway, watched the people hurry past to wherever they were going. He unfolded the map he'd picked up in the station, looked every bit the tourist., and started scanning for churches.

Father LeBore supposedly stayed up in Poughkeepsie but his area of responsibility apparently included the city as well. There was a good shot he might be in town and Sam wasn't exactly eager to climb onto more public transportation after suffering six hours of stink eye - and literal stink for that matter.

Who brought a tuna sandwich onto a bus, seriously?

Sam started the hike. It wasn't that long to Saint Patrick's Cathedral and where better to start?

Twenty-five minutes later, he stood outside the massive doors half-wondering if he could even push them open for how heavy they looked. The whole place was huge, beautiful. Old school - real old school as in 1800s. The Gothic architecture painted an intimidating picture. If any place was gonna have a legit exorcist, this'd be it.

Sam waited though, stayed at the base of the stairs and stared up.

Could he even go inside?

Wasn't he...like...tainted or something, now?

He watched an older man and woman walk inside. Another couple followed. A young woman next. He hesitated, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the crosses, windows, and soaring archways.

Sam walked up the stairs and gently pulled open the door, releasing the breath he didn't know he'd been holding when it opened just fine.

Inside it was even more ornate. Old and beautiful and definitely inspired by something. Dean didn't believe in angels or God but Sam sorta did. In here, even Dean would feel the warmth of the reverent hymns that were filling the cathedral. Sunlight poured through colorful stained-glass windows, shining a rainbow on the churchgoers - it was definitely inspired. Somehow.

"Can I help you, young man?"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin and shot a sheepish look toward the usher. "Oh, um - sorry, I just - I've never seen any place like this."

The old man smiled, tall and dark skinned and radiating warmth that Sam wasn't used to from strangers. "It's something, right?"

Sam nodded, looked back to the sight before remembering why he was here in the first place. "Actually, I could use your help if that's ok?"

The man nodded. "What can I do for you?"

"My family, we're in town visiting and I'm working on this project. I kinda – I wanted to check out some places while I'm here. I'm doing some research on old religious practices – real old, like King Solomon. He wrote about angels and demons and stuff."

The usher raised a brow in interest.

"I read that, um, that Father LeBore comes through here sometimes?" Sam watched the usher for recognition and found it. "I'd really love to talk to him about some of his work. Exorcisms. If he's around?"

"You're in luck. Usually the Father isn't with us in the city, but he's here this week. Do you have some time to wait…?" The usher gestured at him.

"Sam," he offered, "And yeah."

"Not every day we get a visitor asking about exorcisms, Sam. I wish we got a few more," the man grinned, "They're pretty exciting. I'll go see if the Father is available."

"Thank you – really," Sam said. He watched the man turn and head down the aisle toward the sacristy.

Sam waited a while, eyes on the back of the cathedral where they would likely emerge from. Hopefully the Father was free – and hopefully he would talk. According to the news articles Sam found, the guy seemed sociable enough, willing to talk to reporters and journalists. Hopefully he'd be just as open with a student.

A priest came walking down the aisle. He was simple looking, old and tired with wisps of silver hair sitting atop a kind face. His curious dark eyes looked at Sam through thick, black glasses.

"I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time or anything, Father," Sam said. He could feel his blood tingling under his skin.

Father LeBore looked him over in thought, expression unreadable. "Sam," he said finally, breaking the quiet with grim smile, "I'm told you have some questions for me."

Sam nodded, turned a little and opened his backpack. "Yeah, I uh. I've got this book and I wanted to talk to you about it. I know you're experienced and everything and I-"

"Not here," the Father answered, a hand raised. He let it fall to his side, his gaze finally settling on Sam's face. "I'm willing to talk with you, but such a conversation is better had outside the halls of God."

Sam looked past him. A few scattered worshipers knelt in their pews, their quiet prayers a soft hum. Probably not the best place to talk about demons or demon blood or – "Yeah, okay."

They left the church and it wasn't long until they moved into the rectory. It was far less ornate than the cathedral, but it was a comfortable and warm and a home for the clergy that worked there. They walked down a small corridor into a room. Bookshelves, stuffed full, lined the walls. Two very comfortable looking chairs faced one another in the center of the room. Sam slid his backpack off his shoulders and sat in the chair across from Father LeBore.

"So, Father – seriously, thank you. I know you're busy and – but I had some questions and I thought you'd be able to-"

"You're very young, Sam. Very young."

Sam felt a lump grow in his throat.

"I'm sad to see such a young hunter."

"You… you know about…?"

"Would you have come here if you thought I didn't?" The Father asked, eyes locked on Sam's face like he was looking for something. His face darkened when his apparently did. "You need help," he determined, "You've been touched by something quite dark."

"That's why I'm here," Sam confirmed, ignoring the sting of the Holy man's words. "You've done exorcisms and you know about hunters. I need you to exorcise me."


	16. You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet (Sam)

"An exorcism won't help."

Sam leaned back in his chair. Four words and it was like taking a shot through the heart. "Then – then something. I'm not – I mean, there's gotta be something you can do. Look, I-"

"You're not possessed. There's nothing to exorcise," Father LeBore interrupted, "However, you may be spiritually oppressed."

"Father-"

"It's like a possession, at least in the sense that you are undoubtedly the target of an evil spirit. Or spirits, even."

"Yeah. Yeah, I mean, I know that."

"Demons."

Sam tugged at the bottom of his hoodie and nodded. The priest watched him, gaze piercing enough that Sam shifted under it.

"There's something… inside of you, I think," he determined and Sam felt the blood drain from his face. "Tell me everything, Sam."

The lump in Sam's throat was a boulder. It was a wonder God didn't strike him dead where he sat. It was in him, something evil was _inside_ of him and he'd walked into a freakin' cathedral and was now in the presence of a holy man and…damn it, it was _in_ him.

"I was…on a hunt," he stared. LeBore nodded encouragingly, though he'd sewn his brows and clasped his hands together in his lap. "It was a vengeful spirit – a ghost. It'd been killing people and…anyway, I was, um, in this mine – like a coal mine - and then I guess a demon was down there. It cornered me and-"

"What did it look like?"

Sam blinked, shook his head trying to recall the memory even though he'd rather not. "I, um. I guess – he had black eyes. Brown hair. Tall, kind of skinny..."

"A man? It was possessing someone?"

Sam nodded again and frowned when the priest's gaze grew darker. The quiet that set in was suffocating. Sam clasped and unclasped his fingers, nervously fidgeting.

"Anyway, he cornered me. I don't know why. I guess – well, anyway, he got me stuck and..."

Father LeBore bowed his head, his dark eyes trained on Sam's face.

It was confession without the comfort of an anonymous screen. Instead, judgement and maybe condemnation watched behind the screen of those thick glasses.

"He…fed me some of his blood." Sam waited a beat, started at his lap and briefly wondered when he'd let his eyes fall. "And now I can…do things."

"What can you do, Sam?"

"Move things. I mean, it's like – have you ever seen Star Wars?"

The priest shook his head no. Sam sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "I guess…so like, I can look at something and focus on it and make it come to me. Or make it levitate. That's it, though. I haven't – I didn't try anything else. I thought…I was hoping it wasn't… me, y'know?"

Father LeBore kept his head bowed, eyes closed in thought. Sam looked up finally, shifted in his chair as if awaiting a verdict. Damned or not?

Human? Or… not?

"We may have a solution. You've taken the first step, an act of contrition. And there may be a ritual, something like an exorcism that might be able to help you, Sam. But I want to warn you, these are powerful spirits. Very powerful."

Sam shook his head, "More than the others you've exorcised?"

Father LeBore replied with a solemn nod. "Much more. I'm not… The demons I've dealt with before have been small actors. I'm not sure if you know this, but hell – and heaven – have hierarchies."

"Right," Sam answered, "Like archangels and the God, right?" The priest looked impressed. "And then… it's the Devil. For hell, right?"

"Lucifer," Father LeBore answered softly. "Yes. That's correct." The priest leaned forward. "In hell, Lucifer sits at the top. Like a king, or to the demons, like a god. Beneath him are the first demons – the knights and their subordinates.

The priest frowned. Sam felt his heart sink to his gut. "I'm guessing that's what I'm dealing with?"

"From what I can sense, yes. That seems to be the case."

It was weird, though. The guy – the demon in the mine didn't seem all that powerful. In fact, Dean told him it practically ran away once they showed up.

"Can you get it out?" Sam asked, eyes wide and a crease in his brow. "I just… I don't' wanna be a monster."

Father LeBore smiled warmly. "Rest assured, Sam. You're no monster."

* * *

It was like herding freakin' cats.

God damn it, Sam. Damn it. Damn. Crap.

Dean stared at the empty bed beside him, fuming and sick, red in the face and green. He scoured the motel, checked the salt lines that were all still perfectly in place. The windows that hadn't been crashed through and the empty spot where Sammy's coat and bags had been sitting just a few hours ago.

The little shit had made an exit during the freaking witching hour.

Smart, Sam. Real friggin' smart.

"Dad, come _on._ Sammy's out there!"

"Take a step back and think, okay? Sammy's ducked out on us _again_ , Dean. We need to think."

"Yeah, I get it. He's probably scared, dad. He thought you were gonna off him. I thought I got through to him, but damn, I swear…"

Dad looked thoughtful. He always looked thoughtful, but especially now. "Well, he didn't just run away to the circus. He's got something on his mind."

"Like a plan? What the hell? What's he thinking?"

Dad set his arms cross his chest, brow furrowed in the most typical "John Winchester" way. "If he thinks there's something wrong with him, he'd look for a solution, right?"

Dean tapped his toe, frowned at the door as if Sam would walk through any second. "Yeah, I guess. So, he thinks he's messed up. The demon, right...? So… okay, a solution to demons… nothing like a Pagan thing. Not like a normal monster. Maybe… would he go to the church or something?"

Dad frowned and Dean pushed himself off the bed, heaved a sigh. Damn it, Sammy. Seriously.

"He might be looking for some kind of purification ritual. We could've helped him with that."

"Dad!"

"We don't know what it did to him, Dean. I know it's Sammy. I know that, but we have to acknowledge that it might've tried to _do_ something to him."

They exchanged glares.

"I want to help him, Dean."

"So… so okay. Where would he go?" Dean muttered while shoving his clothes into his duffle.

Dad started doing the same, shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Call him."

Dad looked over, brow raised. "He ran away. You think he's gonna pick up the phone?"

"He might! Just call. We might – if he didn't think about it, we might be able to track it."

Dad nodded, pulled out his phone and made the call. It rang and rang. No answer. And no voicemail left. Dad tried again with the same result.

Dean tried. Same result.

A few hours and 29 calls later, the Impala tailed behind dad's truck. Sam was somewhere around Philadelphia. What the kid was doing there, how he got there…? Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"I swear to God, Sammy. Your ass better be safe."

* * *

Sam screamed in agony. The pain was sharp, biting. Like he swallowed bleach or acid or needles or something horrible and awful.

He agreed to it, being bound by the consecrated gold. Two heavy cuffs circled his wrists, the pair linked by a golden chain that glittered in the candlelight.

Father LeBore stood over him, Latin falling from his lips in a prayer. Every syllable stung Sam like a wasp. He cried out, tears stinging and leaking from his eyes as he squeezed them shut. If it could cure him… if it could make him pure, he would bear it.

Better at the hands of Father LeBore than his father. Than his brother.

It was too dry and too humid all at once, too hot and too much like ice. Sam panted out puffs of breath, felt his body jerk in their binds. He was slung in one direction, then another, never going further than the table on which he lay. But damn, his wrists were getting raw and pink and bloody.

And the Father… he was smiling.

"You're almost there, Sam," he panted between chants, "You're almost there."

The blood needled under his skin, pushed up and showed bright blue under the flesh.

There was a little door in the little white room they were in. It blew off the hinges.

A man, silver haired and smiling, walked in.

"Howdy! Hey there, father. I'm gonna have to politely request you call it quits there." He looked at Sam. His eyes were yellow. Blinding, glaring yellow. "He's my favorite."

"So, you're the one," the priest muttered, his gaze hard as he looked at the demon.

Sam panted on the table, struggled to catch his breath and ignore the sweat dripping down his brow past his cheek.

"I'm the one," the demon confirmed, smirking, "And I think you've overstayed your welcome. It's been fun, but it's time to say adios, padre. I think we'll have Father Roberts take your place."

LeBore bristled, his cheeks red and fury in the glare he shot the demon. "You've possessed him," he determined.

The demon shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips.

"I guess we'll find out."


	17. Don't Bring Me Down (please)

Father LeBore was dead before he hit the ground. He landed with a crack, blood seeping out from the gaping slit in his throat.

Sam stared down from the table with wide eyes.

"Well!" Sam jumped, eyes darting to the demon walking toward him, "Now that that's outta the way...Look, it had to be done, kid. The good padre was sticking his nose where it didn't belong. But, he sure had you trussed up good, didn't he?" The demon flicked one of the cuffs around Sam's wrist and whistled in amusement. "That's solid 24-karot gold right there. Can't accuse the church of bein' stingy."

"Who the hell are you?"

The man looked back, a wide grin on his face. "I'm an investor."

"Go screw yourself," Sam grunted and wriggled his hands. He tried to calm his shivering body, but whatever the ritual did to him he felt like he'd been through a friggin' meat grinder. And they didn't even finish it.

"Really, now. Is that any way to talk to your elders? All that training and ol' Johnny never hammered home the manners."

Sam stopped moving, his full attention on the man. "How … how do you know my dad's name?"

The demon rolled his shoulders, a shrug the only answer Sam received while he stalked around and knelt beside Father LeBore's corpse. He patted him down, fingers digging into his pockets on the hunt for something.

"I asked you a question," Sam shouted.

The demon apparently found what it was looking for. He stood, one finger to his lips to shush Sam, and made his way back to the table.

"What are you doing? What did you do? Stay the hell away from me – my dad … my brother, they're gonna find me. They'll kill you."

"What if they don't?"

The held each other's gaze, Sam barking out a laugh. "What?

"Dear old daddy and Dean. You've given them the slip before, Sammy. Who's to say this ain't the straw that broke the camel's back?" The demon's lip curled up. "Especially now they know you're a little … different."

"Shut up."

"Hit a nerve?"

Sam scowled, but didn't answer. The demon leaned in, Sam winced, and pressed his fingers to Sam's forehead. "Huh."

"What?" Sam demanded, jerking his head away from the demon who had a crease in his brow.

"Looks like I made it in the nick of time," he muttered grimly. "Those crafty Catholics."

Sam stared the demon down. "Either give me a damn answer or leave me the hell alone! Just go away."

"No can do, Sammy. The good father there trained with some of the best and his little ritual?" the demon shook his head, "Almost derailed my plans. But hey, so what? You just showed up to the party a little early is all."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh," the demon said, looking at Sam with a smile. "I'm talking about fate. Talkin' about your destiny, Sam Winchester."

"Y'know, I always thought fate was a load of bull."

Two yellow eyes locked onto Dean.

"Looks like I was right."

"Dean!" Sam cried.

They caught eyes. Sam blinked away the tears. No way he was gonna cry, not in front of Dean and not in front of this son of a bitch demon.

The same demon that stepped between them, lip curled in the same grim smirk. "I know this is a sweet moment for you two and all, but I'm gonna have to break it up. Things to do, places to be." He grabbed Sam by the arm, tugged him up off the table.

Sam slid off, ungraceful, and stumbled to his feet. He looked seconds away from puking his guts out.

Dean glared, watched his kid brother struggle in cuffs, freaking _cuffs._ "Let him go. Now."

"Make me."

The demon grinned and stared down the barrel of two guns.

"Dad!" Sam called when their dad burst into the room.

"Johnny. Just in time."

"For what?" dad muttered, sparing the briefest glimpse toward his son. Alive in one piece.

"Wasn't supposed to go down like this, but hey, what's life without a little spontaneity?" yellow eyes mused with a shake of his head. His grip on Sam's arm was ironclad. "Hey. Sammy."

Sam tore his eyes from his family and glared up.

"You wanted to get out, right? No more hunting?"

Sam hardened his glare.

"You owe me, kid."

"Sam!"

They were gone. Nothing but blackened, smoldering earth where they stood only a second ago.

* * *

Notes: It's short. I know it's short. I got work travel coming up and being an adult is trash, but hey. Also woooah I finally published smut. I mean it was moosely but hey!  
I'm not totally sure where I was this story to go. That's not a bad thing, it's kinda fun, but hey it's up in the air. Love it? Hate it? Leave a comment or the cute animals die on a pyre while I murmur a prayer to whatever angel is responsible for providing muses.


	18. - interlude -

Seven was supposed to be a lucky number. Funny how it never seemed to work out that way.

Seven years ago, to the day, was the last time he'd seen his brother.

Dork. Nerd. Innocent. Vulnerable.

Scared.

Terrified.

And abandoned.

Dean looked. He and dad looked everywhere they could, no stone left unturned.

Sam was gone. As gone as any salt and burn, not even a shadow or whisper of him floating around in the mysteries and hunts they buried themselves in.

Dean rolled to his side and looked at the clock. 04:43 blinked back at him, glaring red in the dark. Light bled through the slit between the curtains, a sharp yellow counter to the black that enveloped everything else.

Too early to be up, but it wasn't like it was anything new.

Head aching and throbbing, Dean rolled himself out of bed and flicked on the light. Another single motel room, another quiet night in a no-name town with booze and pool and not much else.

He looked over to his phone on the end table. It buzzed every so often, a blue glow glimmering. Dean scooped it up and glanced down to see 'dad' staring back at him.

And he couldn't help how dry his mouth went just then.

Because it had been weeks.

 _Weeks._

"lead" it said in plain black text, "call me"

His hangover took a rain check. He dialed, listened to the ring twice and held his breath when it picked up on the third.

"Dayton," dad muttered, "Can you get there by tomorrow morning?"

"Got an address?" Dean demanded, already pulling on one sock.

He listened like it was gospel, took mental notes of every detail, every syllable until the line was dead and the soft buzz was the only sound humming from the speaker.

They had a lead. They had a _lead_ and that meant one thing that Dean could cling to for dear life.

Sam was alive.

* * *

I've graduated. I've finished work travel. I'm all yours.

Incoming updates.

Also I got to meet/hug jared so ... *swoon*


	19. Hats Off To (Sam) Winchester

The smell of motor oil and rubber leaked through the vents as the Impala tore through the night like thunder.

Dean floored it, gave new meaning to 'pedal to the metal.' He hadn't bothered with the tape deck. Nothing cut the silence but the ripple of wind through the open window, through his hair and catching him square in the face with crisp November air.

Omens, and lots of them, in the outskirts of Dayton, Ohio. There was something about the Midwest. It always drew the attention of the supernatural.

Demons. And maybe, from the sound of it, the demon.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, knuckles white and gaze hard on the asphalt as it whipped by.

Dayton came into view while the sun rose. He pulled into the church parking lot and stared at the simple little chapel perched up on the hill.

It was white, a big dark cross on its steeple casting a shadow in the sunrise. Normal except for the glimmer and flashes through the windows.

Dean slid out of the car, slipped toward the trunk and geared up. Holy water. Gun. Silver knife – more and more until he was armed to the teeth.

And then back toward the church, eyes on the door where just behind, just maybe… maybe it was …

He pressed them open, heavy and quiet.

But not quiet enough.

"Winchester," Dean heard. A woman stood at the altar, pale with short dark hair and a knowing smile on her face as she turned to him. Her eyes were black. "Little Winchester," she added, sounding disappointed.

Just like Dean. It wasn't who he'd hoped for, but it was the first demon he'd seen in years. No complaints there.

"Where the hell's my brother?"

The demon grinned. "Excellent choice of words. I mean, there's your answer."

Dean exchanged his gun for his flask, holy water sloshing around inside. "Where is he?"

"He's in hell. Honestly, you people have no sense of nuance."

"Bull," Dean snapped. His heart fluttered, "If you sons of bitches have him then what are you doing here?"

She sighed, all theatrics with a sweeping gesture toward the altar. "Sorry to disappoint, but the universe doesn't revolve around Sammy Winchester."

"Then give him back."

"Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. I wouldn't even if I could," she said, turning away, "Way above my paygrade."

A blast rattled the old church and the demon shrieked in pain.

"You son of a bitch! What is this?!" She crumpled back against the altar and blood trickling from the gun shot wound.

She screamed, skin sizzling and hissing as Dean poured out the water over her. He stared down, hard, and took a knee beside her.

"Devils trap bullet, bitch. We learned a few tricks. Anyway, sweetheart," he started while holding up the flask, "you're gonna give me some answers. And then I'm gonna send you back to hell."

The demon glared at him, "I'm not telling you dick."

He tilted the flask and a third agonized shriek ripped out her throat.

"Where is my brother!"

A fourth scream.

"I don't know! Ah – Christ, you son of a bitch!" she heaved, her skin bubbling while holy water rolled down it, "I don't know, I swear."

"Yeah right."

"I swear. Your clever little brother's been MIA for a while now."

Dean watched her face for any tick, any sign of bull crap. He only saw pain, truth – as much as it could manifest on a demon's face.

"What are you talking about?" he leaned back, the flask still threatening in one hand. The demon eyed it grimly and sighed.

"Why do you think I'm here?" she hissed, gaze flicking toward the alter. "Think we like hanging around in churches?"

Dean followed her gaze and scanned the layout. A bowel sat on the altar with some vaguely familiar ingredients and candles beside it. But more importantly, the scent he only now just noticed through the stink of sulphur.

"Sage?"

"Summoning spell, genius. There's hundreds of us on his tail," she grunted.

Dean tightened his grip on the flask and looked down at her wide-eyed. "Sam got out."

She looked back at him, black eyes glimmering in glee, "You're face! You had no idea, did you?" she jeered, "Yeah, that's right, Dean-o. Little brother made it out and stayed as far away from you as possible. Made it out of literal hell and you weren't worth a phone call." She barked out a laugh.

"Why are you after him?"

The demon shook her head. "Now that I really don't know. If it were up to me, your brother'd be a bloated corpse by now."

"Then we're done here." Dean put the cap on the flask and stuffed it in his pocket. In its place was a book, small and black with pages lined in latin.

"Hey, woah. Wait – I just told you everything I know!"

"Yeah. Thanks for that. Exorcizamus te, omnis -"

"You can't send me back! They'll – you don't understand, they'll-"

"-immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas -"

"Winchester!"

Dean finished off the rest of the exorcism. Moments later, the woman's body lay draped awkwardly on the chair, smoldering black cinders under her feet and the stink of sulphur faded.

* * *

There was a surprisingly large crowd for a Friday morning in the coffee shop. Though, maybe not. Telework was a thing. Even considering the number of people parked at various tables, it was notably quiet except for the gentle hum of new-age electro jazz.

Sam stared at the book on his table, the text blurry and smudged with age, but not completely unreadable. He shifted in his chair and winced, eyes drifting down to his leg. He frowned at the beginnings of red seeping through his jeans. Looks like the wound reopened.

Sam leaned down to adjust the bandage, one hand hovering over the book protectively. Cuts and bruises were a small price to pay, and ones he'd pay happily.

Satisfied, he straightened out and smoothed out the pages in front of him. Old Bulgarian text lined them, a surprise to Sam considering this sort of stuff was usually written in Aramaic, Ancient Greek, or even Enochian. Maybe not the most subtle thing to bring into a coffee shop, but he had to be certain.

 _Kyriakodromion_ , or a series of homilies as scribed by Bishop Sofronii of Vratsa, housed for decades in the Library of Congress until this morning.

Though, according to his source, perhaps not only homilies. Sam found the section he'd been looking for, scribbled in the 66th passage of the religious text. He read through them, the words bleeding into flowing prose about life and spirit and earth – and there, in between the lines, a recipe.

A spell.

"Damn, kid. Demons not enough for ya? Gotta get the feds on your ass, too?"

Sam closed the book and swept it into his lap, grip tight. He looked up at the demon, stone-faced. "One of you finally managed to sniff me out? Took you long enough," he muttered, eyes flicking toward the studious crowd surrounding them.

"You know how to stay off the radar, I'll give you that." The demon, a tall man with blond hair and dark eyes, sat down across from Sam. It folded its arms across the table and sneered. "You're a slippery little shit."

"Yeah, well. I learned from the best," Sam muttered.

"Trained," the demon said, "You were trained by the best." It grinned, "Like a dog."

Sam stared it down, let the silence fill the space between them a beat. "I'm not going with you."

"You'll change your mind."

Sam huffed out a laugh and leaned forward, his voice razor sharp, "And why would I do that?"

"Because we know where big brother is."

The silence fell between them again, this time crushing like rock.

"And he knows your not in the oven any more," the demon added, "You really think he's not gonna turn over every stone looking for you? It's just a matter of time til one of us finds him off guard. Or, maybe – til he finds you."

Sam scowled, hazel eyes hard and locked on the demon grinning back at him.

"And what then? What'll he do when he finds you? When he finds out what you are?"

They stared at each other. Sam shifted, the book tight in one hand, and stood. He looked away, blank faced, and reached around his back.

"You said it yourself," Sam mused, "I'm know how to stay off the radar."

He pulled his gun from his belt, raised it skyward and fired it with a roaring blast. "Everyone out!" he hollered and fired again. Cries of terror rang out, the screech and groan of chairs scraping over hardwood and scattering feet carrying the coffee shop crowd out any door they could find.

Sam dropped the gun, his hand rising instead as he turned toward the demon. It laughed in terrified glee, muttering insanely at him as the tug of unseen power began pulling at its essence. Pulling down – and hard.

"He's gonna kill you, Sam! You're a monster and big brother's gonna slaughter you like one!" it cried out, voice cracked and agonized as it fell to its knees.

Sam closed his hand into a fist, the stink of burning and sulphur and hell rising up through the soot and embers fanning out around the demon. Black smoke poured out its mouth. It's black eyes flickered and its insides glowed and flashed with light like heartbeats.

And then it fell, face-first, onto the blackened floorboards.

Sam took a knee and picked up his gun. He tucked it away, passed the book between his hands and stepped around the meat puppet now void of a puppeteer.

He was out of hell, had been for a few years. And now his family knew it.

Sam briefly wondered if maybe he should've stayed in the pit.

* * *

 **Notes:**

You guys - I'm SORRY! I do not mean to go MIA like this and I was under the impression things would be freeing up after graduating, not the complete and utter opposite.

If it helps explains things a little, I'm in the military so I work full time and then some. . Studying, preparing for possible overseas tour - there's a lot on the ol' plate, so please forgive my sloooow work time.

I really appreciate y'all sticking around and I looove love love you guys, it's kinda embarrassing, really. In any case, one shots will keep coming because sometimes those are just easier to poof out, but I am still working on hammering away at this sucker :)


	20. Stranglehold

Sam frowned at the shrill whine of sirens in the distance. Lots of them, from the sound of it – and from the picture springing up on the nightly news. Federal robbery wasn't the smartest move, but it'd been done before. Not to mention, the longer things went along without issue, the more careless security became.

The Library of Congress was no exception. Hell hadn't been, either.

The day's revelations were a numb nagging in the back of his head. Dad and Dean – they'd been out there in the world trucking along just fine. Sam'd had faith in them to go on without him just fine and he'd been proven right.

It was just… now, with the demons hot on his trail – well, that sort of thing couldn't help but draw attention.

Pain in the ass is what it was.

The words on the page blurred into nonsense and Sam frowned at them.

It was better this way. Sam could pay almost any price to find the answer.

Sam closed his laptop. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He held it there a moment before sitting on the foot of his bed and glancing up at the ceiling.

Demons climbing out of hell, and at this rate, meant things were picking up speed. The plan was rolling on along without him as much as it could – but it was only a matter of time. He could stay off the radar, sure, but today proved he couldn't stay off it forever.

Sleep came and went and he woke up earlier than he meant to. Good, solid sleep was hard to come by anymore – just an hour here and there. He was used to it by now, but that didn't exactly make it fun.

Sam was on the road before morning. It was only the hints of cloud-covered violent bleeding into starless black that hinted the sun might be rising anytime soon. The first stop would be an unpleasant, but unfortunately necessary one.

The old building stood on the flat horizon, a bulky shadow among shadows. An asylum at one point, it showed every bit of its age from the overgrown foliage to the rusted gated perimeter.

Two stone angels peered down on the path Sam drove along. He spared them a glance and a snort.

If only.

A lone figure stood on the steps that led to the entryway. The big door was ajar, a cool light bleeding through the crack and casting the figure into silhouette.

Sam closed the door of his car behind him, one hand in his pocket and the other carrying the book.

"Crowley."

"Moose," came the answer. The demon held out a hand that Sam didn't take. It let its hand fall. "Still wary as ever I see."

"Nothing personal." Sam showed the book.

"Well, well. Whatever have you got your hands on?"

"I need ingredients."

"Do I look like a minimart?"

Sam scowled at him. "It's your ass on the line here, too. Unless you forgot?"

Crowley heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. He turned and waved over his shoulder for Sam to follow. "So touchy, Samantha. I'm only teasing."

"It's Sam."

The door closed behind them.

* * *

"Red herring."

"Again?"

Dean balanced his phone between his cheek and shoulder, one hand on the wheel and the other on his half-wrapped burger. "Yeah, well – at least we got a little something out of it."

Dad was quiet on the other end, waiting a beat.

Dean sat the burger in his lap and took the phone. "Sam's not in hell."

"What?"

"At least that's what I got out of her."

"You sure she wasn't lying?"

Dean frowned at the road. Yellow lines whirred by in the bleed off of his headlights. "I worked her over – I mean, she coulda, I guess, but she didn't – I didn't get that vibe."

"So… Sam might be running around topside then?"

Dean heard the finishing thought even if dad didn't say it.

He's out and he didn't tell us?

"It's been a while, dad. Kid's probably… been through a lot."

Understatement he heard in dad's sigh.

"Anything, then? Anything to go on?" Dad asked.

Dean glanced toward the passenger seat. A lone newspaper sat on it opened to a certain page. An image of big, old government building and a big fat headline at the top of it.

"Just one. You hear about that robbery? The, uh, front page one?"

"You think?"

Dean looked back at the road and nodded. "Pretty specific section of the Library. Old – like, real old. Some kind of religious mojo-type of text? If anyone could pull it off, it's Sammy."

"We got a title?"

"No, I don't think – nope."

"That's not a lot to go on, son."

"I know, but… even if it's not him, it's still worth looking into, right? Might be our kinda thing."

"If you're up for it," dad said after a moment. "Just keep me updated."

The line went dead. Dean tossed his phone into the seat and replaced it with the burger.

"Huh," he mused with a tired smirk, "Mr. Winchester goes to Washington."

* * *

"Watch your step."

Sam frowned at the corpse as he stepped over it and shot Crowley a look. "Really?"

"Don't get your panties in a twist. Some of us still have to play the game," the demon muttered. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The corpse disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

"So you're still making deals, then."

"Have to pay the bills some way." Crowley stopped at the far end of the room. It'd been a while since Sam had last 'visited' but not much had changed. Drab, dark walls and cool stone-tiled floors were lined in red and silver accents. On Crowley's desk sat an untouched glass of cognac and a scattering of papers, most of them old-looking. Beside them, a bowel, filled nearly to its rim with something that made Sam's nose tickle.

"Enough about me, for now, Moose. Let's hear about this little recipe of yours," Crowley said as he sat down. He took his drink and swirled the glass, eyes on Sam and the book.

"It fits the bill," Sam said, "It should work."

"You better hope it does. As you said, it's not just your tush on the line here."

Sam shot him a look and shook his head. Clearing his throat, he opened the book to the place he'd saved, a corner delicately folded as the marker.

"Most of them should be pretty easy to get our hands on," he noted, "Ink from the word of the Lord, a damned heart, and this one – I'm not so sure…" Sam trailed off, a crease in his brow.

Crowley raised a brow. "The suspense is killing me, Moose."

Sam closed the book and caught his eye. "The blood of the Beast."

The quiet fell between them. Crowley raised his glass and took a drink.

"Is it… I mean, do you think…"

Crowley bowed his head and set the glass on his desk. "You've certainly got your work cut out for you."

"I have to try." Sam tucked the book under his arm.

"That's right," Crowley sighed and leaned back. "Is that everything?"

"There're some other minor ingredients. Easy ones – my blood. Some myrrh and frankincense – gold."

"A tad on the nose," Crowley mused.

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, you've come to the right place for the heart. That is, assuming it is as obvious as it sounds."

"I think so," Sam agreed.

"As for the ink of-"

Sam held up the book with a grim smile. "I think this'll do it."

"So, then, you've got most everything you need," Crowley noted. "There's no reason you had to tell me this in person."

"You know why I did."

"I was hoping I was wrong." The demon stood and smoothed out his suit. Finally, after a moment, he looked back toward the hunter.

"If I'm gonna do this, I need your help."

Crowley frowned at him.

"I need to get into hell," Sam said, "And I need you to help me find the devil."

* * *

The main reading room of the library was massive, its ceiling domed and its perimeter lined with some of the most remarkable philosophers in history. Inspiring text etched into the stone-work framed the statues that looked down on the few people sat at the round rows of desks.

Dead-quiet except for the vibrating hum of a cellphone.

Sheepish, Dean shot the tour-guide an apologetic grin and fished his phone out of his pocket to silence it.

"As I was saying," the guide, a petite older woman, said in a hushed voice as her cutting blue eyes pierced right through Dean, "to access this room for research, academic or otherwise, you will need a reader card. We request tourists do not request a card – they aren't souvenirs. Now, over here we have–"

Dean slowed down after the group, distracting himself with the books. From the corner of his eye, he watched the group move on into the next room and ditched them for the alcove. Tucked in against the high bookshelves, Dean scanned the signpost hung over the door.

The stacks – the rows and rows and rows of books only accessible to librarians – should be through here.

He looked over his shoulder. The researchers and librarians alike had their noses in their books. Quiet as he could, Dean slipped through the door and let it close behind him.

"Like a freakin' meat locker in here," Dean muttered. With a shiver, he started off down the aisles, scanning each as he moved. It wouldn't be long til the guide noticed his absence. She'd been on him like white on rice since he showed up. Maybe it was the flannel?

After a good twenty-or so rows, he finally found a sign marked 'RELIGIOUS TEXTS.'

It was good a place as any to start. If something had been here, he'd be sure to find it. Even a hunter would leave things just a little too clean. And Sam – if it were Sammy – well, Dean knew just what to look for.

The stacks reached from floor to ceiling, metal shelves stuffed full of books. The musky scent of old paper reached Dean's nose as he wrinkled it and fanned the smell away. This was more Sam's type of thing – Dean loved books, sure, but not like Sam loved books.

But what was interesting was the lingering stink that was definitely not book-smell.

"Sulphur?" Dean wondered, catching only just a hint of it.

He scanned the shelves, sniffed and felt like a moron for honing in via nose (what was he, a friggin blood hound?) and stopped short at the faint, miniscule fingerprints dusted on the spine of a book. The powder was ultra fine and brushed away easily as Dean ran his fingers through it. He raised them to his nose and huffed.

"Definitely sulphur," he decided.

So, demon. Not Sam.

Dean stared at the book, half-willing it to burst into flame and burn the damn place down.

Because he'd thought – he'd been sure and his gut usually was on the mark with these things. With these Sam things.

Although, to be fair, it'd been almost a decade. Maybe his Sam radar was off.

Dean grabbed the book off the shelf. If there was a demon that needed killing, he'd happily oblige – but he paused.

Under the book – blood. Dry, but not totally black – maybe a day old?

He stepped back and looked down the length of the shelf. There, at the base of it – more blood. A lot more. Fainter, though – like maybe the staff'd tried to bleach it out.

Dean looked back at the stack and scanned the books. Only now he noticed they looked like they'd been shoved back in carelessly as opposed to the rest of the shelves, all of them lined up neatly – borderline obsessive with how neat they looked.

Either the demonic thief that stole the book was an hemophiliac clutz or there'd been some kind of fight.

"Hey!"

Dean snapped his head to his right and locked onto the guard at the end of the aisle. And he promptly went crashing into the stacks when the guard raised his hands, eyes going black.

He pulled himself up from the pile of scattered books and reached around for his – well, crap.

Not like he'd been able to come into a federal building armed.

"Demonic bookworm, huh?" Dean mocked, sweat on his brow, "What, d'you sell your soul for a library card?"

"Must be my lucky week," the demon said, lip curling. "Two Winchesters in two days."

Dean's heart jumped to his throat. "Two?"

"Say bye-bye!"

Dean brought his arms up but the blow still sent him back. He grabbed books from each shelf- the thickest available – and swung at the demon.

It dodged, grinning at him, and lunged forward, throwing a punch. Dean parried and caught it square in the jaw, the corners of the book digging into skin. He snaked around, struggling to get a hold – any kind – to get a choke, but fighting a demon hand-to-hand, seriously?! Hand to freakin-

Dean blasted back into the shelves and felt a distinct 'crack' – the lights swimming before his eyes. The demon caught him by the throat and dragged him up over the rows of books.

Dean coughed, the tag of a spatter of blood in his mouth and trickling past his lips.

"My – my brother-" he said, fingers curling around the demon's arm.

It grinned at him. "Yeah. Yeah, Dean, let's say we give your brother a call? I'm sure he'll be dying to see you."

* * *

 **Notes** :

Poopdy-doop, chapter 20 is here!

So this is unbeta'd, unedited - I'll be back to clean it up, but I like to just push it out and keep on rollin. Please forgive the errors!

Please leave a review! As always, those things are my life-blood :) I love hearing from y'all.


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